


Beneath a Paper Moon

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-30
Updated: 2007-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8074075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Stranded alone on a planet where war is outlawed and violence is punished by death, Reed and Hayes struggle to make a new life for themselves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers: 2.08 "The Communicator," 3.15 "Harbinger," 3.17 "Hatchery," 3.23 "Countdown."  
  
I apologize for any mistakes or problems in this fic, and not for making all of the changes I probably should have. It's been rotting (in an unreadable file format) in cyberspace for a while now. I thought I'd better post it, even if it's not my best and could use a lot more work. Special thanks to Kylie Lee, for betaing at least part of it (and trying valiantly to improve my writing, instead of just correction errors) and taking such good care of the entslash archive, and_workinprogress for figuring out gmail's bizarre attachment-coding foible, letting me actually post this fic. I especially want to apologize to Kylie, because though I know this would be a much better story if I made all the changes she suggested, I think I'd have to stick around a few more weeks than I'd like to if I wanted to make this perfect.  
  
Inspired by: 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,' by Samuel T. Coleridge, which I only ever read because of Douglas Adams' 'Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency.' All of the chapter titles and a good deal of the plot are taken from the poem. And 'The Sparrow,' by Mary Doria Russel, the book on which I think I base pretty much everything I write, though this one is more drawn from it than most.  
  
The ending is a little bit copied from 'Castaway' (with Tom Hanks), but I was experiencing a great deal of culture shock when I wrote this, so I sort of channeled it all into the story.  


* * *

> The many men, so beautiful!  
> And they all dead did lie:  
> And a thousand thousand slimy things  
> Lived on; and so did I

Matthew Hayes stares up at the stars, remembering a world far away and nights long past. Reed is sitting behind him, smoking something that smells an awful lot like his grandfather's nails, thick and yellowed from tobacco--Matt chooses not to comment. Reed can have whatever petty indulgences he needs to get through this.

They sit back to back because the wind coming down off the mountains at night is cold and because they don't need to look at each other in the darkness. The night is thick and it keeps them from ever sharing too much, from seeing how deep the forlorn timber of their voices really goes. There is a moon on Hil'al, but it isn't crafted of white moon rocks that reflect the light of a far-off sun. It's black as the blackest obsidian--a void traveling through the sky, projecting darkness instead of light. 

Matt thinks that this is what death must feel like--cut off from anything and everything, but without the comfort of absolute darkness, just enough light to know that it's all wrong.

Rostov is dead. Chang is dead. So is Walters. And it was just two days ago that they watched McKenzie's head hit the hard near-mahogany of the platform with a thud too dull for the violence of it. Standing there alone, buffeted on either side by the bulbous forms of the Hil'aka, Mac looked delicate for the first time since Matt recruited her out of Basic. She looked like she was drowning in those shifting, almost gelatinous bodies. Reed averted his eyes out of respect, but Matt held her gaze. He can only hope she was able to draw strength from it. 

They should be dead, not their subordinates, they both know. They know it as well as they know that nobody is coming for them. They are alone with each other and a moon that doesn't shine. 

They can't talk about it. They're not even brave enough to try to blame each other because it's all pointless now. Nothing they say will be able to change what happened--so many mistakes and no turning back. 

There's only going forward and Matt doesn't know where to start. "I grew up in New Mexico. You didn't need a telescope to see the stars there, in the desert. I used to drive out there and pretend I was Luke Skywalker in the desert of Tatooie. Sometimes I'd bring a sketchbook."

"You could become a cartoonist. You could make pottery," Reed offers, hollowly.

"I could take you down to the marketplace and sell you as a slave." Matt rolls his eyes. He needs to snipe a Reed, if only so he can pretend nothing's happened.

"You would have to fight me first."

"Well, I wouldn't want to risk damaging the merchandise." Matt gives a hollow chuckle, which Reed returns like an echo. For a while, they let it float into the darkness, seeing how quickly the night swallows it up.

After the silence becomes hollow and oppressive, Matt continues. "What about you, Lieutenant? What are you going to do?"

"I used to want to be a writer, but I doubt the Hil'aka will appreciate the subtle art of historical fiction." His voice is filled with more disdain than he knows the Hil'aka deserve. They have done the unthinkable--they have eliminated war before the advent of space travel. Their methods are draconian, but, Matt wonders, isn't it worth it? Is it not for the end of war that he and Hayes fight? Surely they don't fight for its continuance.

"It'll be fantasy to them," Matt points out.

"But that would mean becoming some dancing monkey, a curiosity for these people."

"What's so wrong with that?"  
"What do you bloody-well mean, 'what's wrong with it?' Major, need I remind you that it was only five days ago that I was holding on to you to keep you from punching that trainer and getting yourself beheaded like . . ."

"It's one thing to pedal your unique point of view and completely another to sign away all your rights and become a zoo exhibit just so you can fight again."

"What _are_ you going to do then?" 

Matt has no idea. What's a soldier to do, living on this planet where commerce is more fierce than the long out-moded system of war? He sighs. "I'm afraid I don't know, Lieu...Malcolm." Ranks are outlawed along with warfare. It's going to be a hard habit to shake, the barrier of professionalism. "What about you?"

"I was thinking of signing up on one of the trans-oceanic merchant vessels."

"I thought space was the only thing you cared to sail."

"When I was younger my father wanted me to join the Royal Navy, like him, and his father before him, and his father...you get the idea."

"And it's going to take being stranded on a primitive alien planet with no other marketable skills to get you to fulfill the destiny of your distinguished heritage?"

"When I said I'd rather die that follow in my father's footsteps, I guess I was lying. I wasn't lying about hating it, though."

"Your first duty is to survive," Matt tells him, fiercely.

"Not a MACO slogan, surely."

"No, but I think it applies."

"Indeed."

"So, do you think you can give it up?"

Reed gives a dry chuckle, lost to the darkness. "I can do without ever feeling your boot connect with my face again."

"That's not what I'm asking, Malcolm, and you know it. I mean everything: the history, the lingo, the technology, the structure."

"I'll do what I need to. Yes, it was my life, but I like to think that I'm more than that--that if there were suddenly peace in our side of the galaxy, I'd be content with it."

Matt hangs his head. Everything is suddenly so heavy. For once in his life, there's no one to tell him what to do--Reed certainly won't.

He left Earth because the Xindi were a threat, true, but if he's being perfectly honest himself, on empty nights traveling between stars, no moon in sight and a glass or two of good 'ole Jack Daniels to keep him company, he knows that's not the whole story. After the signing of the Hanoi Accords, there was precious little for him to do on Earth other than readiness drills. He was restless, desperate for another Democratic Republic of Korea, for another neocolonial war in Greenland. "I don't know if I can say the same."

* * *

They wake to the sharp bark of the Er'ala at dawn. The sky is a fierce almost neon blue, except the ugly bruise of the moon marring the peace. They part ways with a handshake and two bittersweet smiles. Reed goes down to the docks and Matt back to that trainer whose lights he almost punched out.

They're both good enough tacticians to know that the last thing the only two aliens on the planet should do is to split up, but that kind of strategy has been outlawed and there is no superior to come in and check in on them--they are free to be as stupid as they please.


	2. Chapter 2

> Within the shadow of the ship  
> I watched their rich attire:  
> Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,  
> They coiled and swam; and every track  
> Was a flash of golden fire.

After all these years, Malcolm finally understands what Trip had to go through on a daily basis down in engineering, the captain and the bridge crew pushing the ship to her limit and the engineers left holding the smoldering pieces together.

The Hil'aka run their ships the same way the run their justice system: with impunity. A day makes all the difference in the world. It's the difference between those Sil'ala fruits in storage rotting and a successful delivery, between a prominent businessman in Ren'al choosing the Mish'ara over any of the other thousand competitors, between fortune and bankruptcy, and bankruptcy on Hil'al is something you never want to experience. It's a three strike system--the first is a painful red tattoo in the constantly shifting opaque blob that is a Hil'akan body, the second is the amputation of one of the stump-like protrusions that seem to function as the Hil'akan arms, and the last is the same punishment as for sedition and incitement of war, the same McKenzine and Chang faced. 

It's sink or swim, and Malcolm really hates swimming. 

Luckily, he's relegated to the role of mast-rat. The Hil'aka are ground-dwellers that never completely left the sea, it seems. In fact, he's not sure they made it past the whole 'primordial ooze' phase. To them, Malcolm is a valuable asset, despite his unfamiliarity with the stars or the trade winds or the basic operations of the ship. He's a quick learner, even with Captain Mish'a keeping him from the books as he does. 

He seems to think that when he learns all of the trade, Malcolm will leave to acquire his own ship, despite the fact that he already pays Malcolm for the five Hil'aka he was able to fire and replace with a single strangely-shaped tak'ai (foreigner). Of course, Malcolm needs more pay just to get the same services as a Hil'aka--for the lab equipment to manufacture necessities like soap or sunscreen, for the expensive cloth that the Hil'aka use only for decoration or for its unique feel on the great big gelatinous sensory organ that is their slick almost-transparent skin, for the luxury food he can actually eat, instead of the thick, almost dirt-like sludge the other sailors consume. The Mil'akan food only succeeds in making Malcolm throw up for about three days straight, almost getting him fired.

But even with all those expenses, Malcolm is fast on his way to building himself a fortune, introducing the idea of the use of new materials for sails and slight adjustments to their shape that allow the Mish'ara to be the fastest ship on the whole trans-Way'al route. 

For his part, Mish'a is tolerant. Malcolm is just another cog in his great entrepreneurial design. As long as Malcolm does his duties, Mish'a will make the necessary inquiries and supply stops to keep him on board, for a small handler's fee, of course. In fact, after the initial awe of seeing Malcolm climbing up through the rigging, the other sailors haven't given him a second thought. They let him to himself most of the time as they play word games and write poetry he doesn't understand, or take long swims in the ship's wake, just shadows darting in and out of the waves, flashing green or purple or yellow, depending upon their mood. 

It's only Tar'a (the first-mate, as far as Malcolm can gather, considering that direct discussion of ranks is deemed inappropriate) that asks him why he does not swim and why he stays up nights when the Hil'aka are hibernating beneath deck and stares up at the stars. It was Tar'a that stayed up, despite the utter lethargy the Hil'aka seem prone to after a full day, to take care of Malcolm when he caught a strange bug from a batch of contaminated Sil'ala fruit. Malcolm has begun to think of him as the father he never had, as he explains patiently to Malcolm the new night sky with the disturbingly dark moon, allowing him time for wonder instead of charging straight ahead to the next constellation. It is Tar'a that listens to tales of spaceships and great men past with patience and wonder. It is Tar'a that helps Malcolm sign his own name, unable to leave marks on the thin parchment of all Mil'aka documents with just his hands. And in the rare times they are in port, Tar'a takes Malcolm touring through great sprawling cities filled with crystalline pools with colorful forms in transit and through bazaars loud with shouted bartering and a thousand subtle colors that Malcolm cannot understand. And it is Tar'a the flashes the dark mauve of his displeasure whenever someone approaches him about his most interesting pet, or stares out of the seemingly abyssal-dark protrusions the Hil'aka consider eyes. 

Malcolm often dreams of Enterprise, of great adventures, of Trip grinning at him playfully as they stalk their way through some alien forest or Captain Archer's strong profile against the starry backdrop of the viewscreen or Porthos scratching at his leg on an away mission until he consents to throw a ratty old Frisbee for him. Other times he dreams of T'Pol's marvelous bum or Hoshi Sato in that skin-tight silk dress she was forced to wear while greeting the Kjorkarinian ambassador. Those times, he wakes to sticky sheets, like he's a teenager again. Only Tar'a asks questions when he must wash them in the ocean, and Malcolm is too embarrassed to tell even this kindly old alien. 

Other times, on hot sleepless nights, he wonders about Major Hayes, and how he's faring with these strangely militant pacifists and their flashing colors and accommodating but distant manner. He sometimes wonders if he'd be happier with human contact, if he and Hayes had stayed together like he knows they should've. But this strange detachment is good, he thinks. Hayes would have only been a reminder of all the mistakes they've made. And all they ever did was fight anyhow. The Hil'aka don't fight. Malcolm doesn't even realize how much he misses it. The numb sense of dislocation suits him, and he finally understands why generations of Reeds took to the alluringly dangerous but solitary sea.

* * *

"Mal'colm, I know you were very sad when you first came to us, yes? But now you are so...brown. What does it mean?" Tar'a joins Malcolm sitting up against the main mast as he munches on a Sil'ala fruit for lunch.

Malcolm smiles. Before he managed to manufacture sunscreen, he was burnt beet-red, which signifies pain to the Hil'aka. "It means that I've seen a lot of sun."

"Sun?" Tar'a flashes a slight yellow: surprise.

"The sun makes my skin change color, not my moods."

"And here, I had thought that you were becoming much happier." Tar'a turns a confused grey to match the clouds floating forebodingly on the horizon. 

He sighs. "I am happier, Tar'a." He still misses his job, his friends, not having to struggle so hard just make his basic needs understood. Strangely, he misses the moonlight. But he's getting a routine now. He has the sea and enough money to survive and at least one friend. He's beginning to think that he might survive this, after all.

"I am pleased to hear so, Mal'colm. You happiness means much to me."

"And yours means much to me." He finds, strangely, that the words are true. That's all friendship is, he supposes, to care about the happiness of another. He'd just never looked at it that way before, having been taught that that friendship was an obstacle to duty, nothing more.

"If the happiness of others means much to you, how could you have . . ." Tar'a does the Hil'aka equivalent of a blush, turning slightly orange. "How could you be a...a killer." The Hil'aka believe that the drive to war is a disease

"I was a soldier, Tar'a. We didn't kill because we liked it."

Tar'a blinks. "Then why would you do such a thing?"

"It was my job. I did it because our world is not like yours. There are people who will kill you or your kind if you don't kill them first. It was something I did well, just as you sail well. Was it not my market-destiny to do so?"

"War is a waste of resources." Tar'a seems angry, or perhaps disappointed, the flash of color is too quick for him to tell. 

"War is sometimes necessary." But even as he says it, he knows that Tar'a won't understand. His world is too small and the only aliens he's ever met have been, on a large part, friendly. You can only put down your arms if everyone agrees, not just one tiny group, or country, or planet, or galaxy, even. 

"Do you miss it?"

He thinks about firefights, phase pistols unleashing concentrated lightning, his heart hammering in his chest, the rush headier than cocaine and so much better, the knowledge he could kill a man with his bare hands if he pleased. He thinks about tinkering with the phase cannons, or looking at battle plans, new and old, feeling his mind stretch to imagine the possibilities, of going down hard on the mat, the solid crunch of bone and flesh beneath his flying fist, the satisfying ache of his muscles afterwards. He thinks of explosions, a thousand colors, fire billowing outwards like Guy Fawkes Day. 

But then he thinks about bodies, eyes glazed and lifeless, burned, or bloody, or misshapen. He thinks about screams, of the sound of bombs exploding too close, of watching innocents, eyes wide, caught in the crossfire. He thinks about exploding ships, of T'Pol with a gun to her head, of Trip and the captain stumbling in bloodied and bruised, of the sickening crunch that marked Hawkin's death, of the way Rostov screamed when he went down, of Hayes, lying motionless on an operating table with so many tubes coming in and out and a bandage on his chest, holding his insides in. 

"No. I don't miss it."

* * *

One day there's a storm. The wind's screaming and the rain pouring so hard that he thinks that they might as well be underwater, for how wet he is. The waves tower above them and for the first time in his life, Malcolm begins to understand why people believe in God and why sailors pray.

Below him, Mish'a is shouting orders to the crew, all flashing a bright blue in fear and not bothering to conceal it. He thinks that Tar'a might be yelling for him to come down, but he's paralyzed, legs twined around the mast, hands twisted around the ropes so tight he must be bleeding. But he can't let go. The ocean is angry below him and God, he can't let go. He's more afraid than he's ever been, no matter how many scary aliens were threatening to shoot him or beat him or kill his entire race. He can't fall into the water. He can't.

Then he hears the crack and the mast is going down. Despite the rush of the wind in his hair and the feeling of falling, he can't bring himself to let go of his hold on the rigging, paralyzed in fear. He's screaming into the fury, hitting the water with a slap and sinking with the heavy mast into the darkness.

His lungs are bursting, his limbs flailing, but he can't find up. He can't think. He can't be anything other than fear. The water stings his eyes--more salty than Earth's and he's bleeding, but the cold of the deep dark sea is so pervasive that he can't tell from where.

This is how he's going to die. Ironically, this would make his aquaphobia not-at-all misplaced and if he'd joined the Royal Navy like his father wanted him to, then he wouldn't be stuck here in the first place.

He can't say that he's going to die without regrets, because he has a lot of them. He regrets that their military gung-ho stupidity got Chang and McKenzine killed. He regrets Matthew Hayes, because he knows that it doesn't matter if you're a human or a Mil'akan, because you'll abuse your property all the same, and penance or not, Hayes has signed his soul away. He regrets never apologizing to the man. He regrets missing the waterpolo game he promised to watch with Trip and the captain after he got back from the mission. He regrets never meeting his newborn nephew. He regrets that his father will never know how good a sailor he's become. He regrets that he's going to die and nobody will care, except maybe Tar'a, in his own Hil'akan way, which might not even count. 

And then he sees a golden glow in the darkness, a light shining so bright that he knows it has to be what they call the 'light at the end of the tunnel.' There's nothing more he can do. It's stupid to die like this, but he has lived a life full of adventure. He's resigned to his fate, so he swims towards the light.

Instead of judgment, or angels, or all those who crossed over before him standing there, accusing, he finds a soft body, a slick caress, water pooling and bubbling as they break the surface.

Tar'a has surprisingly warm skin, and it's not as slimy as he thinks it should be. They're rising through the airlock and into the hull of the ship and he's gasping in great gulping breaths and letting Tar'a hold him up.

"I see why it is you don't like the water." Tar'a says, and Malcolm wishes that the Mil'aka could smile, because he knows that Tar'a's would be radiant.


	3. Chapter 3

> All in a hot and copper sky,  
> The bloody Sun, at noon,  
> Right up above the mast did stand,  
> No bigger than the Moon.

Matt Hayes no longer thinks about himself as Major. He no longer thinks about himself as Matt or Hayes either. He's simply 'Tak'ai' now, the foreigner too afraid to fight. Blue is fear and his body is all black and blue now. They won't let him rest until he bleeds. He forces his opponents to push him up against the thick metal posts that hold up the awning just to get some reprieve.

He never thought he'd tire of a fight. He's been beaten beyond and inch of his life by one of the 'information specialists' down in Colombia. He's had a goddamn hole put in his chest from an alien lizard. He's been stabbed, slit, broken, and battered and still come back for more. He's military and proud of it. Each wound is a symbol of a sacrifice made in blood for peace and justice and stability on his planet or for his planet. Each one meant something and he came back because he still had a job to do, because despite all the scars and breaks and nightmares, he still hadn't found a mark with enough meaning to make him feel complete. So he keeps searching. But now he knows that he won't find that here. Here the fights are pointless. And he's immune to the adrenaline rush now. Maybe when he stops fighting he'll go into withdrawal. If they ever let him stop . . .

He tells them that he's too weak to fight tonight. He tells them out of reflex because they'll never believe him. His opponents are other Hil'aka with 'the madness.' They are so far gone that they have signed their lives over to caretakers. They have consigned themselves to violence because if the state got a hold of them, they know they would be executed. 

And Matt did the same. He too, was cursed with 'the madness,' consumed by war-lust, not because he ever enjoyed the sound of riffle fire, or the resounding crack of snapping someone or something's neck. He got addicted because that's what he's always done and he doesn't know how to do anything else.

Now, as he lies curled, bruised and hurting in a clean but practically empty cell, he knows that despite all the marches and the machismo, the reason he's here is fear: he was afraid to step outside of the box. He was afraid to be someone else, just as he was afraid to defy the captain's orders that time when he got infected by the insectoid hatchlings. He wasn't lying when he told Reed that he just wanted to do his job all those times when Reed wanted to play politics, the game Matt'll never understand. He just wants to do his job, even when now that job is meaningless.

"Tak'ai, today is important fight. People pay big money to see you, no?" This fights are underground but held in broad daylight. They take place in an open arena in the desert, away from the tributaries, easily policed. They're not exactly illegal, because as long as no damages are done, people's property is their property and Matt belongs to Raj'a. 

"I can't, Raj'a." Really, he can't. He can barely move. His knuckles are bruised and sore and his right pinky has been sticking out at an odd angle for so long now that he doubts it will ever heal. He can't breath properly and the bruising on his right side doesn't fade. He hopes he hasn't damaged any organs, but he can tell by the pain in every breath that there are a few ribs floating around there somewhere. It hurts to talk and he can forget trying to smile. He only sleeps because of exhaustion, otherwise the aches would keep him up and sweating all night. "I'm sick. You need to let me heal."

"You are a funny one, Tak'ai. You beg me to let you fight even though you are a puny little male who is always white. And then you turn so blue. Why are you afraid, Tak'ai? You love to fight. You know it. I know it. And most importantly the customers know it. You are so very strange. But you know you are my favorite. Come now."

The door opens and Matt stagers out. He has no other choice. Raj'a is firm but gentle. They will push him and prod him but never so much as hit him to get him to fight. Once he's in the arena, though, all bets are off.

He didn't understand why 'violence and sedition' was so heavily punished until he got in the arena for the first time. With the Mil'aka, it truly is warlust. It's a disease and those who have it will keep fighting and beating, bludgeoning and crushing each other with their great big bodies until the enforcers pull them apart.

Raj'a only keeps them from killing each other because he thinks having his assets die would be a waste of resources. He has a staff of doctors--the best in Mil'aka medicine. And, Matt supposes, if you are a Mil'aka with incurable violence, there is no better place to be. But to him it's hell. One man's paradise is another's purgatory, or something like that.

So he walks forward, wondering if this time truly will be his last, all the while knowing that there's nothing he can do about it. Raj'a is not a bad man. As far as food and accommodations go, he takes care of Matt's every need. One time, when Matt got a pretty serious hit to the head and was concussed and bleeding over everything, Raj'a stayed in the cell, just holding onto him and comforting him when he cried out nonsense. He even flashed a light blue the entire time, out of fear for his charge. Sometimes, Matt thinks that if things were different, they might have even been friends.

He steps into the arena, looking up at all the featureless faces, crystal clear and brilliant in the sun, waiting in silent anticipation. Those that are teetering on the brink come here. Like pedophiles hanging out in schoolyards, they come here so that they don't snap and do something someday. They must live their lust vicariously. 

The sun is beating down on him. Today the fight must be staged in his advantage, because the awning is open and he is much more resilient to the desert than the Mil'aka, who lose water fast through their gelatinous skin. 

He cannot tell from appearance, but from the way the stands are filled to the brim and the fact that the awning's open, he judges that it must be Sir'a, the farthest gone of all the Mil'aka. Matt can tell them apart only by their fighting style, and Sir'a fights like the essence of madness, unpredictably, but with such overwhelming strength that Matt finds it hard to get a single blow in against him. 

Today, Sir'a is deep dark royal purple. He's angrier than Matt has ever seen before and ready to charge, which he does the second Matt enters the arena.

The first thrust is easily parried. Matt ducks out of the way, more agile than the thundering Mil'aka. He rolls to the side, despite the explosion of pain that causes in his chest, and manages to jam his hand firmly into the soft flesh of Sir'as back. The Mil'aka cries out in pain, flashing red just briefly, before the purple deepens even more. He throws Matt off with ease, sending him tumbling into the rough sand of the arena floor. Pain sears through his side and Matt knows that the damage he's not thinking about just got worse. 

As Sir'a leans over him, he delivers a good kick to the midsection, the sharpened tips of his boots making a nice cut into the slick skin. Sir'a howls in pain and Matt struggles to his feet, stumbling forwards to land another blow to the head. But he is too dizzy from the pain in his side and the heat to notice one of Sir'as limb-like appendages coming up to meet him, throwing him back against one of the columns. Matt hears a sickening crunch, his vision blurring white with pain. He thinks the pain is in his left arm, but he can't really tell as it all fades to black.


	4. Chapter 4

> O happy living things! no tongue  
> Their beauty might declare:  
> A spring of love gushed from my heart,  
> And I blessed them unaware:  
> Sure my kind saint took pity on me,  
> And I blessed them unaware.

Malcolm does not see Tar'a flash golden again for a long time. He never stops to ponder what it means, thinking only that it was a way for Tar'a to find him in the dark. They go about their daily routines, Malcolm climbing through the rigging, repairing the damned masts, the rest of the sailors cleaning up the derbies on the deck and sorting through stores for anything salvageable. They make several more runs before he sees that brilliant golden color again, and when he does, he's momentarily stunned by how such bright luminescence could remind him of death.

But he supposes it's appropriate, because when he finds Tar'a alone in the forward section of hull, the golden color is accompanied by a low moan, almost a keen. He has just returned from captain Mish'as cabin and seems...subdued somehow. Probably something to do with local politics, Malcolm's sure.

"Tara'a, what's wrong?" He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for this. He's not good at this stuff. He has trouble enough with humans, let alone a different species with completely different emotional cues. 

Tar'a continues to moan and the gold intensifies. "I will never find myself an acceptable mate."

Malcolm nearly balks. He most definitely was not expecting that. He'd thought that Tar'a was far too old, and definitely far too wise to bother with such things. "I'm sure you will do just fine."

"No, Mal'colm. You could not possibly understand. I am so hideous. No one would want me to bare their children. No man would want me. I am so deformed."

Wait...no man? Huh? He always thought that Tar'a was a man. "Excuse me?"

"My color spectrum is so broad. I can't seem to express myself. They will all think that I am hideous and inarticulate, without class." No wonder Malcolm has an easier time understanding Tar'a. He thought it was only because they spent so much time together. "My only friend is a tak'ai who only comes in red, white, and Earth-colored." 

"Thanks for the compliment."

"You are welcome."

"Why are you so concerned about finding someone, Tar'a? I'm single and probably will be for...well, on this planet, forever." Not that he wouldn't mind something other than his right hand for a change.

"My mother insists. I can't remain on this ship any longer. I must marry and only then will I have enough capital to get my own ship and my own business."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you'll find someone. You're a lovely person. You just have to wait for someone to see that." He sounds like a bad Valentines Day card, like those novellas and self-improvement guides for giggling teens. He sounds kind of like Trip, actually. But he can't think of anything else to say. Tar'a has just turned his entire perception of the world on its head. He thought she was an old man and she turns out to be a very young woman, anxious about finding a spouse. He supposes he can log this as just another mistake, another hopeless cross-cultural misunderstanding like the many they've experienced since they got here. 

"Thank you, Mal'colm."

And then to gold melts into a deep forest green, showing her contentment. Gold must mean sadness, he thinks--so much different from what he's used to.

And then she turns, and if he's not mistaken, there's something different about her eyes. They're not as dark.

"Will you do something for me, Mal'colm?"

He hesitates only briefly. She's a friend. It doesn't matter how wrong he was about her place in society. She's been nothing but kind to him for as long as he's known her. "Of course."

"Let me hold you."

He nods, still unsure, as she envelopes him, great gelatinous body molding to fit around him. It feels like sinking in a pool of Jell-o, only he's not having trouble breathing. She's warm and vibrating just slightly and colors are flashing in a rainbow around him. It's like he's floating and sinking and flying all the same time and he can almost feel something. It's not pain. It's not happiness, or contentment. It's a new feeling altogether, neither wonderful nor mundane. The closest he can find is melancholy, but without any particular sadness.

And after how long, he does not know: seconds, minutes, hours, eons, she releases him.

"Thanks."

* * *

He doesn't know enough to know, but he thinks that Tar'a has been avoiding him. Of course it could just be something to do with the Mil'akan politics that he always tries to ignore. The other sailors are obsessed with Tar'a all of a sudden, keeping her busy more than her actually trying to avoid him. Yet he misses her presence. 

If he's made a mistake by their last conversation, he wants to right it. She's his only friend on this world, and after Enterprise, he's come to depend upon having friends. But he doesn't want to risk offending her more.

He finally resolves to ask Mish'a, rapping reflexively on the solid wooden door to his office even though the Mil'aka use low whistling noises instead.

Mish'a calls, "Come in, Tak'ai," nevertheless. Mish'a has always been accommodating, willing to recognize that Malcolm doesn't know their culture and patiently explaining things to him. That's why he's here now. 

"What can I do for you? Another stop, perhaps?" He appears hopeful.

"Not this time, Mish'a. Actually, I just have a question."

"Go ahead. Today is a hurried day and soon I would like for you to check on the Northwest sail, please."

"Indeed. I was simply wondering about a Mil'akan behavior that just happened to me. I have never experienced it before."

"Certainly, Tak'ai. Please describe."

"I...er...well, this individual asked to me to hold him...or her. I agreed, not wanting to offend them. And they sort of...enveloped me, flashed lots of colors . . ."

Mish'a strands abruptly, great jiggling form looming towards him as he flashes bright with anger. "Who did this to you Mal'colm?" This is the first time Mish'a has called him by name, and it startles him that Mish'a even knows it.

He feels suddenly uncomfortable, backing away even though he knows that Mil'akan law forbids an attack. "Why?" he almost squeaks. "What does it matter?"

"You have...Blar'ax! How does one say this? It is not polite, but how else to make you understand?"

Malcolm is afraid now. Whatever this is, it's serious and he knows what happens to serious on Mil'al. He backs up until he's pressed back against the door.

"Just say it."

"You were...that is how we Mil'akans initiate sexual....You were raped."

"What?!" He was not raped. Tar'a would not do that to him. He trusts Tar'a. Tar'a would never hurt him. "I refuse to believe it."

"You were not partnered to the one who did this, yes?"

"No, but . . ." But they were friends? If that truly had been rape, then...what kind of friend takes advantage of a friend's ignorance?

"You were unaware of the consequences of the act, yes?"

"Yes, but...but...if I hadn't been, then would there be a difference?"

"I would have to dismiss you both for violating the terms of your contract. But, if you were an unwilling participant, then you can take this before the courts. The offender will be executed, but deservedly so, and you will be recompensed with a percentage of their earnings." Mish'a began to pace. "I cannot believe that one of my own women would take advantage of such a innocent little young male such as you . . ."

"Women?"

"Yes, women. All those serving in the market are women," which explains why the UT always translated pronouns as masculine. He idly wonders what the feminists would have to say about that. "Men are to be neither seen nor heard, only traded for. Do you know what kind of paperwork I had to fill out to get you, Tak'ai? Luckily, there were no rules on the books for off-worlders. Now, perhaps, I am wondering if I have made a grave mistake. Please, Tak'ai, tell me the name of the one who has violated you so that we might seek justice."

Even if it was wrong, even if he's horrified and betrayed, he cannot condemn Tar'a to the same fate as Chang and McKenzie. He can't have another body on his head. He just can't.

"No."

"If you do not tell me, Tak'ai, the law states that I must dismiss the entire crew, if I know that two have violated their contracts."

"I...I don't wish to prosecute. It was consensual. I was just confused. I would have...I led her on. I just wasn't sure of the full extent of the . . ."

"If you are sure, Tak'ai. I do not wish to do this, but if you continue down this line of thought, you will be dismissed as well. You do realize this."

"Yes, I realize this, but I can't bloody-well see her executed because I can't keep my mouth shut, can I?"

Mish'a ripples a readish yellow, the Mil'akan equivalent of a sigh. "If this is what your kind considers honor, Tak'ai, you are a species destined for bankruptcy." Bankruptcy, indeed. They were already thinking of eliminating the money system back on Earth. If only they should be so lucky out here. "You must give me a name."

Malcolm lowers his eyes. "Tar'a." It still feels like a betrayal, even if he knows the other options are far worse. 

Mish'a turns so many colors all at once that it blends almost brown to Malcolm's eyes. 

"Tar'a? She would never . . ."

"I know," Malcolm sighs. "I think it must have been a mistake."

"I told her that next time in port we would being going to all the adequate houses, looking for a husband with a good dowry. I told her not to follow any foolish ideas about beauty and souls and other such nonsense. What was she thinking? Now I must . . ."

"Tar'a is your daughter?"

"Of course she is. Why do you think the crew indulges her so? She is so young and so foolish. I wish...No. It is the law and without the law there would be nothing but war and chaos and bankruptcy. No, I am afraid, Tak'ai, that I must dismiss you both."

And that was Mil'akan ruthlessness--her own daughter. But there was nothing that Malcolm could do about it.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Tar'a. I didn't know. I wish you had asked. I wish you had told me. God, we made such a mess of things." It's not the first mess Malcolm has made since coming here either.

He tries to comfort her, not sure where to place his hand that's not indecent, but he needs to touch her, needs to dim the shimmering gold that's so bright that it's almost blinding. 

"My career is over, Mal'colm! I was as foolish as my mother says. I thought that even though you are just a tak'ai, things would work out between us and I would not have to go through the humiliation of coupling with a low bidder."

"It's okay, Tar'a. I still wish you had told me, but I understand."

"Nobody will hire us now. We will go three-times bankrupt, Mal'colm."

"Then we'll just have to build our own ship. With you knowledge and my ability to climb the rigging, we should be able to make it work. I used to be an engineer of sorts." He neglects to mention that all he ever built was weapons, unless Trip was in a real pinch and needed an extra pair of hands down in engineering. "I can build us the fastest ship on Mil'al. And the laws of market-forces dictate that we will find business, no matter how much of social pariahs we are."

Tar'a turns to him and she is so bright green he almost has to close his eyes. He smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

> This seraph-band, each waved his hand,  
> No voice did they impart--  
> No voice; but oh! the silence sank  
> Like music on my heart.
>
>> "I don't care about the bloody trade embargo on Sil'al!"
>> 
>> "But, Mal'colm, the punishment for violation of the embargo is death. Surely you do not wish..."
>> 
>> "If I don't get any Sil'ala fruit, I'm as good as dead. You know I can't eat most of your food, Tar'a."
>> 
>> Tar'a 'sighs' looking at him strangely. "For you, Mal'colm, only for you, we will go. But you will not make a show of it. If we get caught..."
>> 
>> Malcolm reaches out to grab what would be a shoulder if Mil'aka had them. "We won't get caught."
>> 
>> He winks. Not that she really knows what that means.
>> 
>> It's been approximately two months since he completed construction of their new ship. True to his word, it is the fastest ship on this primitive little world, utilizing a two-section hull and five sails, like a racing boat instead of the strange bulbous ships the Mil'aka design to hold the maximum amount of cargo. With a combination of Mil'akan and Earth technology, their ship can be manned by just the two of them, though one must be awake at all times. He would like to eventually hire a third, but they simply have not found anybody they trust quite yet. Most people who would consent to work for the 'foreign whore and his taskmistress' are not the sorts that one would willingly trust. 
>> 
>> "We are not exactly inconspicuous, Mal'colm. The Sil'aka will certainly report us to the Ren'alan government."
>> 
>> Malcolm smiles. He knows trade and he knows economics, even if it is becoming obsolete on his own world. He's still dealt with many a piece of trading space-scum. "Not if we make them an order they cannot refuse."
>> 
>> * * *
>> 
>> "I could seize your shipment of Ren'ala spice and report you to the authorities," the tall Mil'aka turns a threatening shade of pale purple, the equivalent of a leer.
>> 
>> "And risk never receiving another? Imagine the demand. Imagine the price you could levy, with this sort of scarcity."
>> 
>> "It is against the law."
>> 
>> Malcolm winces. He always believed in upholding the law: in duty, in ethics, in protecting people. But he says, "They never have to know. We have the fastest ship in all of Ren'al. We can sail through the embargo zone and out within a single night." And without moonlight, they will never be caught. 
>> 
>> The trader seems to grin, nodding. "Yes, you are a crafty one, Tak'ai. Just like the other, you have the spirit of the madness in you."
>> 
>> The other one? Hayes. He's almost managed to forget about Hayes in a way. He thinks about him at night, wonders what he's up to and where he is. But, Malcolm has grown accustomed to thinking of himself as the only human on this planet, because in his practical daily experience, he seems to be. It would make sense if Hayes had been taken to another continent. He has half a mind to let it slide--to keep living the life he's made for himself. But he can't shake that stirring feeling of obligation, that deep down biological loyalty to the only other human he'll probably ever see. As much as he loves Tar'a, sometimes the burden of communication, the cultural divide, is just too much. He longs for an ordinariness that only Hayes can give him, even if they only speak for five minutes.
>> 
>> "Where is he? May I speak with him?"
>> 
>> The trader laughs, pulsing yellow. "You may see him, Tak'ai, but I do not know what kind of exceptions the game master will be willing to make just for similar form."
>> 
>> Tar'a nudges him. "Mal'colm. To stay in port for the games this afternoon will be dangerous."
>> 
>> "Then take the ship back outside the embargo zone and come back for me tonight."
>> 
>> "Mal'colm. Why are you so interested in this Hay'es? You have told me on many an occasion that you do not even like him."
>> 
>> "He's the only other one of my kind, Tar'a. He was my shipmate. He...I'm not sure you can understand."
>> 
>> Tar'a turns a brief pinkish gold, signifying her sadness, her disappointment. "I suppose that is the problem, Mal'colm, that I cannot understand."
>> 
>> "Then you'll do it?"
>> 
>> "Of course."
>> 
>> He wants to hug her right then--he doesn't know why. He doesn't realize until this very moment how desperately he's missed human contact--how much he really needs to see Hayes. Of course, hugging would definitely be considered public indecency, so he refrains.
>> 
>> "Thank you so much, Tar'a."
>> 
>> "It is no worry."
>> 
>> * * *
>> 
>> The trader gives him directions to the stadium. The sun is beating down fiercely and it is a long walk. Luckily, working on a ship through the middle of the day has gotten his skin tanned dark and made his muscles strong, helped his endurance. 
>> 
>> The arena is primitive, of splintered driftwood, bleached bone white, covered with a dirty old awning that just blocks the harmful rays of the desert sun. He feels a chill come up his spine, the familiar tense agitation, the anticipation, the stillness that hums and crackles like lightning, the feel just before battle.
>> 
>> He walks into the ticket area among a chorus of obsidian stares. It's as though the Mil'aka are trying to look through his skin to see the colors within. If the Mil'aka played poker, he's sure he could take them all. 
>> 
>> "Are you here to fight? Because we cannot formalize the paperwork for today's..." The ticketmaster coughs past the sickening muddied yellow of greedy awe. 
>> 
>> "I am not here to fight. I would like a seat."
>> 
>> "I am afraid that a Tak'ai like yourself must sit at the back, to not distract from the show. And I will have to charge you triple."
>> 
>> He sighs, used to this. He used to get angry, now he just places his pile of wooden coins on the table with a resigned clunk. 
>> 
>> At the very back of the stadium, he can barely see. An announcer comes out simply to state the names of the competitors. Unlike many of the spectacles of Earth: football, racing, burlesque shows, no frills are needed. Most that come here, Tar'a tells him, are so addicted that the announcer could do a jig and they would not care. They come for the fight.
>> 
>> Then he sees him. Even from this distance, Malcolm can clearly see the bruising, the limp, the way he wavers on his feet. Yet the crowd is cheering, flashing bright with pride. They think that he is a warrior. They think that the blue of the bruises is simple fear. 
>> 
>> Malcolm is on his feet in an instant, the urge to protect overwhelming. He's tearing down the aisle, ignoring shouts of the crowd-monitors and the push of the angry Mil'aka he must barrel through in order to get down to the floor level.
>> 
>> Hayes doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy diving away from his horrible, lusting opponent. Malcolm cries out as Hayes gets a blow to his chest that sends him staggering. Is he the only one that can see that this monster is going to kill him? Is he the only one that understands?
>> 
>> The crowd cheers as Hayes pants, but lands a practiced kick to the attacker's stomach. Crowd monitors are on either side of Malcolm, sandwiching him in, pulling at him, trying to take him away. But he won't go. He can't leave Hayes to this. The man might be an insufferable bastard, but he just can't watch him die.
>> 
>> Hayes moves in for a blow to the head, good form, but he doesn't see the counterattack coming until it's too late. And he's flying back against the wall and then there's a crack and blood--so much blood. Malcolm can't see as the crowd cheers a standing ovation and the medics rush in, obscuring Hayes' broken form. Only then do the two Hil'aka on either side of Malcolm finally get the upper hand and drag him away.
>> 
>> * * *
>> 
>> He paces the clean white cell. It's well furnished, with a clear pool of water and a soft upright bed, the way the Hil'aka prefer. He has to get to Hayes. He didn't need to see the exact injuries to know that they're bad.
>> 
>> But they won't listen. He's screamed and shouted but they just stare at him blankly from the black holes of their eyes. And now he's been left alone in here for what feels like hours.
>> 
>> He pounds on the wall. He sits with his head in his hands. He imagines scenario after scenario--Hayes dead and himself forced to fight in his place; Hayes wounded and crying out for him; Tar'a coming back to an empty pier tonight and never finding him.
>> 
>> And then the door opens and in steps a tall Hil'aka, wearing a small sensuous piece of green cloth around one of her appendages. She is tinged with worry and there is a brisk sense of urgency to her movement.
>> 
>> "We apologize for your treatment here. But you must hurry. Our medics do not know what to do with your kind and we fear that he is dying."
>> 
>> Like many Hil'aka in power, she is no-nonsense, and in this situation, he appreciates that. In fact, it's always been something he appreciated, though he has grown fond of Captain Archer and Commander Tucker's particular brand of nonsense. He regrets that he will never experience that again.
>> 
>> But, snapping back to military mode, operating more on reaction and adrenaline than anything else, he nods curtly and follows her out. He needs to see Hayes, that's all that matters. 
>> 
>> The corridors are long and windy, but clean, dry from the desert but sandless. He takes note of them--the exit routes, the way back to his cell, the barriers useful in a firefight, even if there are no weapons here. It all comes automatically.
>> 
>> Then they break through from the sterile cleanliness of the bleached-wood corridor into the chaos of what's obviously the medical bay. There's blood everywhere. Hayes is, thankfully, unconscious, with several Hil'aka leaning over him.
>> 
>> "Out of my way, out of my way, thank you." Malcolm pushes through the crowd, only hearing snatches of worried voices.
>> 
>> "It's hard."
>> 
>> "He's so red on the inside."
>> 
>> "What is this whiteness?"
>> 
>> The source of blood is clear--Hayes' left arm is broken, a splinter of bone breaking through the skin of his forearm. This is far beyond the field medicine Malcolm has been trained to handle. He's always had hyposprays of coagulants and bandages and splints and the like handy. But mostly, in space, the wounds are burns from phase pistols or energy weapons, sometimes projectiles. Breaks like this on the battlefield are rare. 
>> 
>> He forces himself to calm, the soldier taking hold, and the officer. "Somebody boil some water. Get me a lot of the cheapest cloth you have and boil it too. Dry it as fast as you can. I need something..." He needs to fix the bone in place somehow. The Hil'aka use mostly a very very strong excretion form a certain kind of beaver-like creature to fit wooden dowels. Metal is used, but rarely. He certainly can't risk trying to fasten the bones back together that way. On Enterprise, Phlox uses some sort plastic that gets replaced by natural bone in a matter of weeks, along with some sort of bat guano or something like that. Obviously, there's none of that here.
>> 
>> He's debating whether to just put it back in and try to sew it up or to try and fasten the bone with something when one of the Hil'aka reaches out to feel the bone and jars it. Hayes comes awake with a scream.
>> 
>> There's blood flying everywhere, and for the first time since Malcolm has known him, trying to hold the man down before he hurts himself further, he sees fear in those baleful green eyes.
>> 
>> * * *
>> 
>> Matt is confused. The last thing he remembers, he was in the middle of a horrible arena on some godforsaken alien world, wondering if it was hell, but not really questioning what he's done to deserve it. He's killed enough people to have judgment or karma or whatever powers-that-be come down on him hard. But maybe, he thinks, that was all a dream. He's Dorothy and those crazy colorful slug-beings were his singing munchkins and now he's waking up, full of pain but with a human face above him.
>> 
>> He's alive and there's a human hand stroking his hair and a human voice telling him that everything's going to be okay. He just has to relax. Even if it's going to hurt, he just has to relax and let them fix whatever it is.
>> 
>> But his doctor isn't human, he remembers, from the last time. And when he woke up with a goddamn hole in his chest, he was on enough happy-juice that he could barely feel his fingertips, let alone the torn and ragged flesh of his wound. 
>> 
>> But, he's a soldier, and he's learned to just 'suck it up' as his drill instructor said once upon a lifetime ago. So he takes in a few gasping breaths and forces his muscles to relax.
>> 
>> "That's good," Reed says, awkwardly, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. "You're doing well, Major." He doesn't care that ranks are outlawed. These people are too stunned by the blood and the screaming and the unfamiliar anatomy to care. "Just a little bit more."
>> 
>> Matt exhales and closes his eyes, falling back flat onto the operating table. It still hurts, but the voice mumbling curt, British English is just as soothing as a good old cricket match--nothing better to put a man to sleep. 
>> 
>> "Sorry," Reed says and snaps the bone back into place.
>> 
>> Matt doesn't even bother to scream as the pain turns his vision black.
>> 
>> * * *
>> 
>> Tar'a is upset with him, he knows. She was in a near frenzy when he had Raj'a, the games master, meet her on the pier at midnight and she does not like panicking. She was even more upset when he came stumbling back onboard, bloodied and dead on his feet with two Mil'aka carrying a litter behind them with the only other human being on the planet.
>> 
>> "Why to Ne'al?"
>> 
>> "We need ice."
>> 
>> "Ice?" she scoffs. "A useless substance, Mal'colm. I have told you many a time that it only bruises the Sil'ala fruit."
>> 
>> "We need it to take care of Hayes. We need something to bring the swelling down and Mil'aka medications are just as likely to kill him as help him!" He throws up his hands in exasperation. He feels so helpless--as helpless as he felt watching McKenzie and Chang marched up to the execution platform. His knowledge of medicine is limited, especially with not a single familiar tool or substance in sight. But their medkits--along with everything from Earth other than the translators, were confiscated and auctioned to pay for their 'citizenship papers' at the very beginning. The tools that could save Hayes' life are probably sitting in some wealthy Hil'aka's display-case right now.
>> 
>> "If he needs ice so badly, perhaps we should leave him in Ne'al."
>> 
>> He reigns in his anger, forces himself not to see her words as callous. She doesn't know the extent of Hayes' injuries, nor anything about human physiology. For all he knows, she thinks that touching the ice will charge him like an electric coil.
>> 
>> "There's no way we can do that, Tar'a. He's very sick. He needs constant care."
>> 
>> She flashes a warning signal of frustration. "This is too much of a risk, Mal'colm. He is much advertised. He is the only foreigner ever to fight. There have been rumors of him even in Ren'al."
>> 
>> "You heard them? You heard about him and you never told me?" He's angry...so angry, even though he knows it's not her fault. The Mil'aka consider gossip about one's familiars to be beyond rude. But he can't help but think: if she had told him, would he have been able to come before it got this bad?
>> 
>> "I did not think it was important." Her voice is firm and her tone stubborn. 
>> 
>> "Well, it is. I worked with him. I know him. He's the only other one like myself." Why can't she understand? He knows that the Mil'aka hold no special regard for those they work with, but still...how can she not understand? The only other human....It is in this moment when he wonders if the Mil'aka ever experience loneliness. Even when Tar'a was concerned that they would be ostracized or that she would not find a mate, she was more worried about bankruptcy and the end of her career than loss of contact. 
>> 
>> They're so different. For some reason, that has never occurred to him until now. Even when accused of rape, even with their strange forms, and gender reversals, he has always thought it was all just a problem with communication. But now, he feels true loneliness, knowing that, as much as he loves Tar'a, she is so fundamentally different--she does not need to be surrounded by familiars. She does not need contact. Would she even miss him if he were to go? She cares for him, but does that mean that she would miss him? He does not know.
>> 
>> "You are taking such a risk, Mal'colm. How could you buy this...this broken slave with our earnings and not consult me?"
>> 
>> "He was going to die, Tar'a! And you expect me to sit back and watch?"
>> 
>> "We are going to die too if they catch us, Mal'colm. If they find him, they will know that we broke the embargo. He is just property, Mal'colm, consumed by the warlust. He is guilty of sedition."
>> 
>> "If he is then so am I. We were warriors, Tar'a. I know you find this hard to understand, but that is who we are. I will always be a soldier. But I am not consumed by warlust. Can't you see? We are not like the Mil'aka. We're different."
>> 
>> She blinks at him, turning away and looking out at the sea, the fresh breeze of the morning air not stirring her thick form. To look at her you would not even know there was a breeze. 
>> 
>> "Go below and care for your colleague, Mal'colm. I will tend to the ship." Her voice is empty and her disappointment painted bright, but she does not refuse him, and Malcolm finds himself heaving a sigh of relief.
>> 
>> * * *
>> 
>> Matt wakes up again in a daze. He hurts and aches everywhere--more than he's ever hurt before. It feels like there's something clamping down on his left forearm, where the pain is the worse. He shifts just slightly, regretting it.
>> 
>> There's a comforting numbness on his chest, a chill, and as it seeps down into him he is forced to open his eyes. Reed is standing above him. 
>> 
>> "Good to see you awake, Major." Reed smiles with relief. "You've been unconscious for more than two days and I was beginning to worry." Reed's features look pinched and strange after so long staring into black eyes inset in gelatinous blobs of color. It takes a while for Matt to connect that look in his eyes with genuine worry. 
>> 
>> He finds that his throat is dry and he's having trouble speaking. Reed notices and places a little slice of heaven on his tongue--ice. But last Matt remembers he was in a desert, baking in the harsh sun of the arena, skin too bruised to see if it was tanned or burnt.
>> 
>> He must be somewhere else...his mind feels sluggish, his thoughts blocked by pain. "Enterprise?" He's surprised to find that he still holds out hope for rescue when he knows that the ship's sensors couldn't penetrate the spatial anomaly that caused them to crash in the first place.
>> 
>> "I'm afraid not, Major. We're still on Mil'al."
>> 
>> Suddenly the pain feels heavier, if not necessarily worse. He needs to escape. He can't survive here, even though there was a time when he thought he could survive anything. "Hell," he mumbles, before Reed can slip him another ice chip.
>> 
>> "I'm beginning to agree. But you can rest now, Major. You're safe here." Reed pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. 
>> 
>> Matt is surprised that he is able to find enough comfort in that statement to drift off almost immediately.
>> 
>> * * *
>> 
>> Hayes hasn't done much other than sleep for the past week, and Malcolm is beginning to worry. Many of the bruises on his arms, legs, and face have faded to a sickly yellow, but his right side is still a dark purple-blue and he often wheezes in his sleep. 
>> 
>> Luckily, there hasn't been any sign of fever or infection. The bacteria on Mil'aka have evolved to survive in much different hosts, so Malcolm has not been sick since he came here. If it were not for that one blessing, he doubts that he would have been able to do anything for Hayes at all.
>> 
>> As it is, he worries about the makeshift cast he made out of cloth and the Hil'aka equivalent of glue. He'll be surprised if Hayes is ever able to use that arm properly again--assuming he survives.
>> 
>> Malcolm goes below deck at every chance to chip ice off the giant block they collected from some very confused traders on Na'al and change the packs strategically placed on Hayes' body--mostly on his chest now. Sometimes though, he just sits, reassured by the sight of the man and the familiar rhythm of even his labored breaths. 
>> 
>> Other times, he can't help but touch, feel warm breath against his hand or a stubbled cheek or that dark mop of hair, more than regulation length now and much softer than he imagined. He feels almost perverse doing it, like a peeping tom, looking upon Hayes when he's so vulnerable and innocent. The slightly troubled frown but the openness, the willingness to show pain in sleep, is disarming. It's something that's never meant to be seen and he's sure that Hayes would see this as a violation, but Malcolm can't help himself. He needs the reassurance. He just needs to look upon another human face.
>> 
>> Tar'a has been uncharacteristically silent. He could attribute it to the fact that they both have to work harder and longer to give him time to look after Hayes, but he's not going to kid himself. She's avoiding him. She does not approve of some ridiculous 'familiarity' between himself and the seditious â€“though mostly unconscious- forces of Hayes. And she cringes every time he calls him 'Major.'
>> 
>> This silence has given Malcolm plenty of time to look out into the great horizon, still less vast and beautiful than a starscape, or to simply focus on pulling ropes or climbing between the sails. He tries not to think about how life will be once Hayes gets better, because the man has never been truly predictable, and there's still a chance that he never will recover, but he finds himself living fantasy after fantasy nonetheless. 
>> 
>> They are always mundane: he and Hayes playing a game of football on the deck with one of the handcrafted Ren'ala uluk'ai-skin balls; sparring below, where nobody can see, sweat dripping and adrenaline flowing; climbing through the rigging laughing and joking; or just sitting beneath the stars and the empty space where the moon should be, talking about Earth and explosives and sports. But no matter how mundane, they are still dreams.  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

> O sweeter than the marriage-feast,  
> 'Tis sweeter far to me,  
> To walk together to the kirk  
> With a goodly company!

Matt can't stand this. It's worse than when he was tortured by the crazy neo-Malthusians in Venezuela, worse than the chest wound that forced Phlox to actually put him in restraints for two weeks to let heal.

The bruises have begun to fade and his arm hurts less now, though the strangely shaped, almost goopy-looking cast doesn't inspire much confidence. He's able to make it above deck to dump his 'waste' himself now, though the effort leaves him panting and out-of-breath. 

Reed has been uncharacteristically silent and taciturn. Perhaps it's because, forbidden from fighting, they have nothing to say. But he doubts it. Reed is a man with a story, probably similar to his own with a rebellion in him and a certain degree of academia. Matt wants to know it. He wants to learn because...damn, this old dog needs some new tricks now that this strange world and this strange world has robbed him of everything he knows.

He finds himself humbled--embarrassed that Reed had to care for him like a sick child, stroke his brow when he whimpers in sleep, stretch his abused limbs, hold his hand through the pain. Maybe that's why they can't seem to speak. They've become too intimate, almost more intimate than lovers (Matt certainly wouldn't hold a bedpan for any of his girlfriends), and only because they're the only two humans on the planet.

But they need to talk--the silence that was once a protective cloak is now cloying.

He spots Reed sitting on the railing, overlooking the wide ocean and the big blue sky--the one familiar in this world of monsters and slimy things. The Mil'aka is tending to the sails right now. He...she, according to Reed, hasn't lowered herself to speak with Matt, which is fine by him. She's one of them--the enemy he's been fighting in sleep and the waking nightmare that has been his stay here. And, as any good soldier, he knows that you don't get close to the enemy. You don't allow yourself to see their humanity, even if they are human, because one day you might have to kill them.

Reed turns long before Matt reaches him, the telltale thump of his slow limp an easy giveaway. Matt curses his weakness and is further humiliated by the fact that Reed stands abruptly, striding over with a grace that Matt used to have and wonders if he will ever have again, to help the wounded soldier sit down near the railing. The cautious concern unnerves him as he tries to push Reed's hands away. 

"Lieutenant, we need to talk."

"I know," Reed whispers.

"First..." first, this is so hard. But, as proud a man as Matt is, he's always believed in being an officer and a gentleman. He hates it, but he owes Reed and he's not too big a man to let him know that. How could he be after Reed running those dexterous fingers through his hair was the only thing that relaxed him enough to put the delirious dreams to rest? "First, I need to thank you for everything you've done for me."

"Don't mention it," Reed mumbles, pulling his knees closer to his chest.

"Look, Lieutenant, I'm grateful, for everything. You saved my life, and where I come from, that's no small favor. I know we haven't always gotten along, but I need to know where we stand...what you want. Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

Reed chuckles slightly and hangs his head.

"What? What's so funny?"

"You're finally _asking_ to take orders from me."

Matt laughs along, relieved to know that he still can. "I guess I am."

Matt isn't sure what he wants the answer to be. All he's know of Mil'al is pain and hate, but Reed seems to have caved out a life for himself here. And yet, Matt still can't stand the thought that they'll be spending their last days confined on a ship with a crew of three. How long will it take until they kill each other.

But all doubts are washed away when Reed turns to him, suddenly earnest. "I want you to stay."

Matt smiles. If he's being honest with himself, he has to admit that this is what he wants. He's not ready to face the world that is Hil'al; he doubts he ever will be. After what they did to him, he could go his entire life without looking upon another Hil'aka. "I'd like that."

"You could be my first mate."

"Don't you already have one?" Matt nods over to the Hil'aka where it stands watching them from a distance.

"The Hil'aka don't believe in rank. Then, I guess you would be an equal partner."

Matt laughs. "I don't know the first thing about sailing. I grew up in the desert and my family certainly wasn't the yachting type. To tell you the truth, I don't care much for the water."

"Me either. But you adapt."

"I suppose you do. But if you want to us to be equals, you're going to have to stop calling me, 'Major.'" They've come too far to hide behind rank now, as much as Matt wants to.

"Fine by me. It makes Tar'a uncomfortable, you being so seditious and all."

Matt looks away, startled by the hurt that seems to rise up out of nowhere. He was just doing his job...no, not his job. But all that pain. And for what?

"Why'd you do it?" Reed asks quietly.

"I wanted to be a soldier all my life, from playing with GI Joe as a kid to JROTC in high school to the military. I didn't know how to be anything else."

"But you're so much more," Reed says with startling conviction. 

"Yes, I'm human."

And nothing can argue with that statement, with the melancholy in the tone. Because here, that's all they are. That's all they need to be in order to be more the same than they are different.

* * *

He's come to an agreement with Hayes. The man's not going to be much help for a while, but he's getting better, and the controls should be fairly easy to operate, considering the way they're set up for Tar'a. 

All he needs to do is to break the news to the third member of this motley crew.

"Tar'a?"

"Yes, Mal'colm."

"I need to speak with you."

"Then speak." He can't tell whether or not she's being short with him. Her colors are muddied by what is obviously fatigue.

"I would rather we speak below deck."

She blinks at him, flashing yellow. She's confused.

"I would like to speak in private."

"Yes, of course." She's embarrassed.

He opens the door for her--odd because it's not Mil'akan custom, but she seems to like it. 

"So, about what did you wish to speak?"

"I'd like to make Maj...Hayes a part of this crew."

"He must pay off his debt to us, yes?"

"No. I want to make him a partner in this."

"Mal'colm, he will poison us with his warlust!"

"No he won't. Tar'a, he's a good man and I trust him. Please trust my judgment on this."

"Very well."

He finds himself embracing her, the strange opaque flesh no longer frightening him or feeling odd against his skin. He's surrounded by colors again, lost in brilliance and beauty and timelessness. He can feel how much she cares for him and it's like electricity humming through him. 

But it's not enough.

* * *

Matt is a terrible sailor. He fully admits it. He curses like one, though, flattening himself to the deck as the boon nearly hits him in the head--again. 

"You're getting it." Malcolm says, though his tone is wry. Sometimes Matt can't take the dry sarcasm. It's just too much sometimes. 

"Sure. You'll sail us back to Earth before I get this," he grumbles, pushing himself off the rich wood of the deck with a wince.

Malcolm kneels down by his side. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, just a little winded." He hates being this weak. He still sleeps far too much--more than the four to six hour of his military regimen--and there are weird aches and pains brought on seemingly by changes in the weather. His only solace is that Malcolm thinks he remembers that it might be time to take the cast off soon, and then Matt can see if he can still use his arm.

Malcolm reaches down a hand, only to make a dive down to the deck, practically on top of Matt as the boon swings back.

"Looks as though I have a bit to learn myself," Malcolm laughs. It's dry too, but comforting. Back when he was...the Hil'aka don't laugh with their voices, so he never thought he'd hear laughter again. 

They lie there together on the deck, taking in the warmth it's absorbed from the sun, breathing in deep after surprise and laughter.

"You learned to sail as a kid?" Matt asks, as Malcolm rolls over so they're lying shoulder to shoulder, looking at the sun they can almost convince themselves is Sol. 

"Before I could ride a bike."

"No kidding."

"I loved the ocean. Father was so proud of me. He thought I was going to be the model naval officer."

"So what happened?"

"Aquarphobia. It turns out, I only loved the ocean when I could stay on top of it."

"Ironic."

"Indeed. I tried to get over it. But after that, nothing was ever really good enough. Everything I did wasn't because I wanted to, but because I was making up for the fact that I didn't take to water like a Reed should. After a while I just got tired of trying to break even."

"I bet your Father'd be proud now, though, wouldn't he?"

Malcolm is silent for a long time. "I find it hard to believe that anyone could be proud of the mess we've gotten ourselves into."

"But we're still alive," Matt offers, not bothering to deny the horrible platitude that it is.

"Come on." Malcolm jumps to his feet, offering Matt a hand. "You still have a lot to learn and the day is young.

Matt smiles resignedly. It's too much to expect Malcolm Reed, Mr. British Military Precision, to open up more than that.

* * *

This is a familiar fantasy. He comes back to his quarters sweaty and greasy from training. Hoshi is there, waiting for him, wearing nothing but a silky red robe embroidered with golden dragons. She looks so small beneath it, but her eyes sparkle with wisdom and lust far beyond her years. "Matt," she purrs, crawling on all fours up the bed, the robe falling open to expose small pert breasts. Her lips and cheeks are painted red and her smile is so seductive.

In reality, Hoshi was an attentive but shy lover. She was not the exotic sex kitten he always imagined hiding behind the quiet exterior. But she was opening up. The night she did wear the silk robe was May 5th, the day of the dead in Mexico. She wore it as they sat before a candle she borrowed from T'Pol and told stories of their ancestors.

In his fantasy, Hoshi does not let him kiss every inch of her. She doesn't even let him pleasure her. Her skin is just as silky as he remembers and her lips as soft, but her kisses are demanding, not sweet as she forces him down onto the bed, ties his hands with the silk belt of the robe, letting it fall open completely, begging for him to touch.

She fucks him hard, taunting, not letting him come until she allows, never letting him get the upper hand. 

In his fantasy, the ceiling opens up and they're in the middle of the desert, under familiar stars, the cool night breeze blowing through Hoshi's fine hair, and the moon so mesmerizingly bright.

When he comes, he sees the moon wide in her eyes and wishes he were back on Earth.

Matt pants down from his orgasm, finding his own hand on his cock instead of his lost lover. He thinks that maybe they had a chance, if he'd let it become more, which he couldn't. He'd come so close to dying so many times. He couldn't put someone he truly cared about through that, no matter how much he might have wanted to. But then again, maybe his feelings for Hoshi are mixed with his longing for all things familiar. Maybe he never loved her at all, just loved the promise she represented, tickling the romantic buried deep beneath the hardened soldier.

He opens his eyes to find dark eyes staring down at him, skin white but changing, radiating a yellow of confusion against the dark wood of the ceiling. 

Matt scrambles back against the wall, pulling thin sheets over himself. The Mil'aka still frightens him, even if Malcolm seems to have made friends. He can't shake the nightmares--flashes of creatures, all the same, distinct only in the fervor with which they hated him. 

"Mal'colm did not tell me that you have a fifth appendage," Tar'a states matter-of-factly.

Despite the fact that Tar'a is clearly unembarrassed and uncomprehending, Matt blushes. At least the embarrassment helps to wash away the fear and calm his breathing.

"It's not exactly an appendage."

"It appears much like one."

"It's used for...it's used in sex for humans. Only males have it."

"Oh." Tar'a appears thoughtful. "I did not know that. What were you doing with it just now then?"

"I was...well, sometimes you can...pleasure yourself."

Tar'a turns even brighter yellow. "How does one feel the essence of oneself?"

"For humans sex is just pleasure. It feels better with someone else, but it can still fell good alone."

"Oh. I am sorry I have interrupted then." Tar'a seems to wander back above-deck, leaving Matt wondering what it would be like to feel the essence of another. People write poems and love-songs and epic novels about it, but he's a simple soldier, a grunt, and he thinks that such things must be beyond him.

* * *

"Hold _still,_ Major!"

"I thought ranks upset people."

"Well, you're upsetting _me!_ Now stop fidgeting."

Matt wonders whether or not he should admit that the ulak'ai skin that Malcolm has wrapped one side of the knife in is tickling him as Malcolm tries to cut the cast off.

"This is for your own good, you know. I could just leave it on." Malcolm scowls, looking like he's actually considering it.

But Matt has feel the cool air against sticky itchy skin and he wants more. He wants to see if he is truly healed. "No, no, Malcolm, it's fine. I promise I'll stay still."

Malcolm eyes him suspiciously but continues. It still tickles but Matt manages to restrain himself. When it's finally off, he heaves a sigh of relief, flexing his hand experimentally. He has maintained full use of his hand and wrist, it appears, but when he tries to twist his arm at a certain angle he feels a sudden pain, gasping. 

"What is it? Did we take it off too early? I was afraid of this..." Malcolm's frowning like it's the end of the world, but Matt's not ready to admit defeat just yet.

"No. It's far better than I thought. I just need to work with it some." He grabs Malcolm's shoulder with his newly freed hand. "You did good. Thank you."

Malcolm flashes him a small smile before launching into another string of worries. "Maybe we should get you a brace or something. We could have one commissioned at our next stop. I think we're scheduled to stop into Fei'al. They're known for their handcrafts. I'll see what we have to trade..."

Matt wants to tell him to shut up, but it's kind of nice to have someone worried about him for a change. It's infinitely better than his handlers not even believing his injuries were anything more than fear. 

"He's worried about you," Tar'a says as Malcolm wanders off in search of more ice. He can't tell if she says so fondly or if it's something else--a color pattern he's not yet familiar with. He hasn't had much practice understanding Mil'aka expressions. His opponents tended to have only one.

"He's prone to over-thinking things. Malcolm should have been an academic. He's too intelligent to be a soldier--sometimes in a really bad way." Matt thinks back to all of Malcolm's paranoia about him trying to take over the security of the ship--more suited to paper-pushers and office-workers squabbling over molehills than an officer who's duty was to follow orders and save lives, nothing else.

"And you?"

"Me? I'm just a dumb grunt with delusions of grandeur." He smiles a fond but bittersweet smile, thinking of all the smart people he's seduced into his bed--all the people who want to believe badly enough to fool themselves into thinking that he's more.

* * *

It feels so good to be able to fully dip into the water again. He remember summers, hotter then hell, going down to the community pool with his cousins and a bag full of waterguns, playing for hours. Also, he thinks fondly of the sexy lifeguard with the well-worn swimsuit that his twin sister once tricked into giving her mouth-to-mouth. He wonders about her--if she's still living in the commune out on the old Navajo Reservation. She was happy last time they spoke and he can only wish that she still is.

"Be careful, Hayes!" Malcolm shouts from above him. "I'm bloody-well not jumping in to rescue you!"

Matt looks up and rolls his eyes. "Come down here, then! The water's cool. You could use a bath!" 

Matt hears a disgusted snort and smiles. They've made port a couple miles up the Ren'al plateau, where they're building a canal much like the historic one in panama before it got 'restored' and transport was made by shuttle. There are a series of waterfalls here and the water is clear and green like a few select sections of the Colorado where he used to raft or canoe with his Boy Scout troop. For him, water was only ever a relief from the heat of the desert, nothing more, but he has to admit that this is beautiful--the slow running tide, the gentle green water lapping at the side of the ship, floating and looking up at the almost-always clear blue sky, free of smog and all the industrial remnants on Earth. 

"Please, Malcolm!" he whines, uncharacteristically. "It's really nice." His first instinct is to taunt and prod until Malcolm complies, like with his cousin Jeffrey who was always afraid the water would get stuck in his ears and never come out. But he knows, deep down, that it's childish and cruel. Of course it's probably equally cruel when he paddles out midway and starts flailing his arms about, pretending to drown. But for some reason it's important to get Malcolm down here.

* * *

Part of him knows that Hayes is only joking, but Malcolm can't get rid of that one percent panic that Hayes might actually be in trouble. He's not as strong as he likes to pretend--Malcolm hears how at night his breathing is rough and labored.

So, he doesn't really think when he dives in, rough canvas pants and all. For a second he panics, not knowing which way is up, but the water is clear and a brilliant green, like a Mil'akan smile. And then there are strong arms on his shoulders, hauling him to the surface.

Malcolm sputters, but his pride makes him pretend that he's just wiping some water from his eyes and knocking it out of his ears. He's shaking just slightly, surrounded by so much water and feeling like there could be anything beneath the deceptively bright surface. But Hayes' smile is wide, like there's not anything to fear in this whole wide world and he can't help but give a small smile back.

Hayes heaves sigh of relief that this didn't turn out badly, grabbing Malcolm's hand and beginning to drag him over to a floating raft, anchored near the shore. There are a few Mil'aka sunning themselves on it, but they are quick to move off as the two oddly colored Tak'ai approach. 

Malcolm is not an incompetent swimmer, of course, as it was a requirement in the Starfleet fitness test. But Hayes stays close nevertheless and Malcolm is embarrassed to realize that he finds comfort in that

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Hayes asks, climbing up onto the raft and sunning himself.

Malcolm eyes him speculatively. Hayes has gone completely nude, figuring the Mil'aka won't know the difference. His body is well scared, and his upper thighs and hips are blindingly white compared to the tan he's developed before. Malcolm doesn't know why he can't stop staring. He's seen Hayes naked before, bathing him and applying ice to his bruises when he was sick, but this is different. Maybe Malcolm never thought he see another person's simple beige flesh ever again.

"Are you coming, Malcolm?" Hayes says, sitting up and reaching a hand down to offer Malcolm a hand up.

"Yes. No thank you. I'm fine." Malcolm is almost self-conscious now and kicking himself for it. There's only one other person on this planet and since when has he really cared about Hayes?

Malcolm pulls himself up besides Hayes, definitely not looking at him. His pants are clingy and uncomfortable. He shifts and fidgets a bit.

"You should take those off, Malcolm."

Malcolm can't make a big deal out of it, of course, and risk Hayes thinking that he's even more neurotic than Hayes must surely already believe, so he shucks the pants, still not meeting Hayes' eyes.

Malcolm is surprised at how nice this feels, the waves rocking them gently back and forth. He rolls onto his stomach and rests his head between his arms, letting the sun warm his back and tickle the hair on the back of his knees. 

Hayes seems to be thinking the same thing, because he stretches out next to Malcolm and moans. "Mmmmm...isn't this great?"

"Wonderful," Malcolm replies, going for sarcastic, but not quite making it. "I can't believe you got me in the water, Major. Not even Tar'a has managed it."

"I'm just that charming." Hayes flashes him a grin and Malcolm wonders if there's not some truth to it.

* * *

He hasn't done this in a while. Of course, it's like riding a bicycle--you never forget. He falls into his own personal rhythm immediately, knowing exactly how fast, exactly how hard. It's strange--maybe some sort of here-to undiscovered result of being cut off from all recognizable humanity has made it almost unnecessary for him to satisfy his more...primal needs. Perhaps he's sublimating into the exhausting business of running this ship or caring for Hayes or into his not-quite-sex sessions with Tar'a, which seem to have become regular, if not always surprising somehow.

But now...seeing all that naked flesh definitely started something, even if it was hairier and more well-muscled than his usual fantasies. He doesn't think about T'Pol and that skintight catsuit or the Andorian with the huge breasts and all the innuendo or about Hoshi Sato, who he knows that Hayes was seeing, though they'd never talk about it. He only knew because it was his business to know. No one else did--he can't figure out why, because it wasn't against the regs. 

Instead, he just thinks about skin sliding against skin, rubbing a hand down his chest, wanting to feel again, wanting everything familiar and easy. He thinks about smells--a woman's perfume, a bouquet of flowers, the thick musk of sweat and cum. He thinks about warmth, the way it radiates out from deep beneath another human body, so different than the slick cool of the Mil'aka. He thinks about silk and cotton and down pillows and a real mattress, even a military-issue one. He thinks about the moonlight and the street lamps of London in the rain and tea and a smoke afterward. 

And then the soldier in him comes awake and he hears footsteps, however soft, approaching. He thought he was alone above-deck--that Hayes and Tar'a were sound asleep and he had the deck and the wind and the stars to himself, but he's wrong.

A form looms above him and without the moonlight he can't even see the light in his eyes, though there's only on person it could be. "Want some help with that?"

He can just imagine the arrogant half-grin, the intense scrutiny of the green eyes he can't see. But he doesn't say no. In the darkness everything is so surreal. He can pretend that it isn't Major Matt Hayes that settles down beside him, unzipping his own pants and reaching out to take Malcolm, heavy, in his hand. 

Malcolm wants to gasp and protest that he's not like this--he never has been. And if for anyone...not for Hayes. But it feels so good to have another hand on him, starting up an unfamiliar rhyme as the other hand caresses Malcolm's body, from the rough patch of stubble he now allows on his chin down to the heaving surface of his belly. He bites his lip, but still cries out with need for the contact of a caring touch.

* * *

Matt's no stranger to this. He's never really considered his sexuality before, but he's pretty sure that mutual handjobs fall in to a grey area that's easily tied off and contained, just like any credible threat. Sex itself is far too intimate for some situations. But sometimes you need to get off. Sometimes you need to be taken care of, feel the presences of another human being and feel them share in your need and your lust and your pain.

Malcolm must not be a stranger to this either because he's quick to return the favor, finding his way in the darkness. Matt wonders what Malcolm's thinking about--probably T'Pol's ass. For his part, Matt thinks about the last time he and Hoshi were together--she said 'I love you' and he didn't dare say it back.

They jerk each other, looking up at the stars and not finding a single familiar constellation there. They don't speak afterwards.

* * *

He and Malcolm have found a familiar peace. Neither of them are the most talkative of people. They're private, schooled in the disciplined distance required of superior officers, often isolated by rank and propriety. On Enterprise, after they stopped fighting, they worked together in almost total silence. But this is different. It's less awkward. Maybe because the silence of the ocean is so much more peaceful than the silence of a spaceship. They're no longer working at cross-purposes, instead helping each other with a practiced coordination that's almost frightening. Matt wishes he knew they would work together so well while they were on Enterprise--when it mattered more.

Matt would have expected this to be more awkward. Every third night, when it's Malcolm's turn up on deck, Matt finds himself wandering up there. He knows he should probably stop. He knows that if he wants to regain the upper hand he should make Malcolm come to him, but he doesn't. He makes his way across the creaking deck in the darkness and they sit side by side, bringing each other off in silence. It's never bothered him to not discuss it before when he was out in the field and helping a buddy out. It's something you don't discuss. But he feels as though they're going to have to do it eventually, considering that they're the only ones here, so it's not going to just stop on its own. They won't find other outlets, get transferred, get scared. 

But they're both comfortable in the zone of plausible deniability, so instead they talk about meaningless things when they need to. Matt has never been one for small talk and he doesn't think Malcolm is either, but sometimes, you just need to share something. You need to bring something up to make sure that it really did exist, that this life and this ocean aren't the whole world and the rest of humanity just a dream.

Malcolm sits down next to him, looking out at the sea. They'll make port in Sil'al tomorrow--the trade embargo is due to finally end today and they need to renegotiate with some of their less than legal contacts.

"I miss Ben and Jerry's," Malcolm declares, out of nowhere. It's strange, hearing him talk about food, when Malcolm always seemed to be a man of few luxuries. When he was at the academy he apparently ate the same three meals every day for a year. "I liked their tropical mudslide ice cream--the one with the pineapple and the chocolate."

But, Matt's not above reminiscing. "I had my first date there. I took Ellie Simco to get ice cream when we were fourteen. She was the typical girl next door with the frizzy brown hair and the freckles and the button nose and everything. God, I had a crush on her. I was so excited, I dropped a bowl of ice cream in my lap."

"The suave officer, Matt Hayes making a first date goof? I'd never..."

"Yeah, well, it turned out not to matter. She'd agreed to go out with me as a joke with my sister. All the time I spent fantasizing about her and trying to get her to go bike riding down to the canyon with me, let alone get my parents to let me spend a second alone with her and it turns out that my sister was screwing her brains out every spare second they got. Why is it that girls get away with 'sleepovers' when they're like five and guys get watched like a goddamned hawk?"

"Your sister..."

"Twin, actually."

"Your _twin_ was sleeping with the first girl you went out with?"

"And a lot of subsequent ones. She found my junior year prom date passed out in the bathroom and proceeded to deflower her."

"You're kidding me."

"I wish I were. Mel was always so jealous of me and I could never understand why. She could do whatever the hell she wanted and my parents wouldn't care. She left home when she was eighteen to join a commune and my mom didn't even bat an eyelash."

"Jesus."

"I drew a line when it came to my team of course. She came to visit me at the barracks. Slept with Money, Perkins, Hawkins and Kemper at the same time, and Cole--twice. Luckily, McKenzie put a stop to it--gave her a black eye when Mel tried to slap her ass. Nobody slapped Mac's ass and got away with it." That much had been obvious to Malcolm from day one. "I told Mel she deserved it and we haven't spoken since."

Malcolm just stares, dumbfounded.

"And you thought your family was screwed up."

"Oh they most definitely are. Just...in a different way. My father had this bug collection--everything from beetles to butterflies to hornets, lined the walls of his study--every spare inch. And he'd sit in the middle of all these dead insects like the bloody lord of the flies, prim and proper and utterly pleased with himself. Madeline was terrified of the place. It gave her nightmares. She used to sneak into my room at night because of it."

"When we were sixteen, my mom took us to Antarctica for the signing of the EarthGov charter. My sister was arrested for public indecency in 32 nations--running down consulate row, naked. All but one pardoned her as a minor, feeling the frostbite was punishment enough."

"Which one tried her?"

"Lets just say Mel's no longer welcome in Singapore and leave it at that."

Malcolm chuckles, but plunges onward. "My father used to wake Maddie and I up at 5:30 in the morning playing Reveli on an antique bugle and make us run five laps around the house and do push ups."

Matt grins. A competition then..."When I was five, my dad took me out into the middle of the dessert with half my sister's discarded doll collection and a riffle to teach me how to shoot."

"Father had me memorize the details of every major naval conflict in history before he would even let me touch his gun. I had to recite them white doing crunches."

"My dad wanted to install a sprinkler system in the backyard by hand, but decided it was too hot to stay out there digging, so he 'appropriated' some of that old stockpiled C4 from stores and busted our watermain trying to blast trenches."

"Your father was..."

"Army, Sergeant Major. He was killed in the line of duty when I was 16."

"I'm sorry."

Matt bites back the 'Are you?' he normally answers this question with. He can tell that Malcolm genuinely is sorry. "It was tough. But he wasn't around a lot, anyhow. And when he was...things tended to explode."

"My father was around a lot, but not present most of the time. He was an Admiral, but more the paper pushing kind. He was such a bloody hypocrite pushing me around about my size and my fitness when he had one of those big hard beer-guts, and the most rugged sailing he'd done in years was yachts and cocktail cruises." Malcolm spits the words, surprising Matt with their vehemence. "God, I hated him. Actually drew up the plans for his murder when I was twelve. Could've pulled if off too, if I hadn't been sent off to boarding school where I couldn't get my hands on any proper explosives."

"Sounds like you and my dad would've gotten along. He was a demolitions expert. Died when a trainee accidentally set off one of the mines they were deactivating in Korea. He was real military--old school enlisted right out of high school. He wanted me to be an officer though."

"Mine wouldn't have settled for anything less. He filled out my application to the Naval Academy himself--when I was thirteen."

"Okay, I guess that qualifies as a little strange. Though, your sister didn't sleep with your high achool gym teacher."

"Madeline? She was so straight-laced and such a bookworm I would think she was asexual if she didn't have two kids."

"And your father's idea of a family vacation wasn't to take his kids on survival training in the desert and make them eat snakes."

"No, my father took us sailing. In order to teach me how to swim, he just dropped me off the side of the boat. I almost drowned. Had to be given mouth to mouth."

Matt wants to say 'that's horrible' because it is a horrible thing to do to a child, and it hurts him that Malcolm had to go through that. Yet, in a weird way, he understands. His dad was friendlier about it, but he believed in trial by fire and put it to the test in the raising of his son. Matt loved him for it--getting to handle heavy weaponry at a young age, camping and hunting, and being given the responsibility of looking after his sister, though they were the same age. It's a fine line between breeding tough hardened independent and capable soldiers and scaring people for life and sometimes there are mistakes--fewer with the more advanced psychological screening processes now in place, but they happen. And, as callous as it might seem, Matt believes that it's worth it.

He still can't bring himself to say anything though.

"So what's it like, to be a twin?" Malcolm asks, looking sheepish.

"What's it like not to?"

* * *

Today, Matt's universal translator went all wonky. One second he was asking Tar'a about a shipment of uluk'ai hides they were supposedly taking to Ne'al when suddenly all he could hear were some clicking and hissing and almost moaning noises. He panicked. Tar'a panicked--that much he could tell from her coloring. Of course, Malcolm was only a call away. 

Luckily, Malcolm's translator was still working and he was able to reset it so it worked for both of them. Malcolm managed to fix what was just a wire break with some stuff from stores, but it made them both realize how much of a crutch it was and the frightening possibility that one day the translators might truly go and they would both be stuck unable to communicate. 

Tar'a was confused at first, because to her, they had both always spoke Hil'ala and she did not question that there was an intelligent being in the world that did not. But after they explained the situation, she agreed to teach them.

Matt wasn't looking forward to it. He hadn't studied language since he learned Latin, and that was only to read all those old war stories and tactical reports. Hoshi had been trying to teach him Klingon with little to no success. 

Of course that opened a whole other can of worms--a can that Matt hadn't been aware he even had until that moment. Hoshi. He missed Hoshi. Matt wasn't used to missing people. He didn't get attached. He dated girls. He left them. They left him. He got assigned somewhere else. It was an adjustment but he rarely reminisced about long lost lovers, asking himself what might have been if he let them get close. If he hadn't lost his father and been forced to give up on ever really liking his sister and hadn't joined the military where you'd die for the guy fighting beside you, but you didn't blink when you gave the order that would send him to his death, then...maybe. The first rule of Matt's world was that you never, ever, asked yourself 'what if?'

But he's asking now. Because he's no longer military.

He's asking, what if, when she had murmured, awed and breathless, snuggled close against him, 'I love you'...what if he had said it back? Would he have meant it? Would it have changed anything? 

What if he wasn't trapped here? Would he eventually have said it? Would he have meant it? Would they break up like every other one of his failed relationships? Would they be disgustingly domestic, get married in the spring on Earth with Captain Archer doing the honors? Would they raise the family he swore he'd never have, because he swore he'd never say those words too? Would they end up resentful and divorce? Would they live happily ever after?

He doesn't know. But he wants to. He misses her. But, just as much, he misses what might have been.

He shivers, even on this almost-Mediterranean night.

They say that the stars are cold, but he knows that's not true. He knows that they're actually burning balls of gas so hot that they can melt even the hardest of metal. They could melt diamonds, though he wonders what liquid diamond would look like. Would it be crystal clear, or bubbly like champagne? Would it hurt, sharp to the touch like those diamond knives that cut you so fine you wouldn't even feel it until you were bleeding out? 

He's full of so many questions tonight. And that too, reminds him of Hoshi.

She's the one that told him that the stars were cold. She said that it was only people and planets and words and cultures, that gave space any meaning at all. She'd look out the window and shiver, and then draw back these curtains she'd fashioned out of rough hand-woven cloth from Brazil. She was the only one on the ship he knew that kept curtains on her window. There was no need to keep the light out, because space was always dark.

But she did it for another reason: space was lonely.

And the sky looks so lonely now without the moon. Only he can't surround himself with culture and literature and wonder because he's a soldier and austerity is all he knows. He can't find a curtain big enough to hide the loneliness that is this sky.

Malcolm says that the Mil'aka don't experience loneliness. Sometimes that confuses him. Sometimes it makes him jealous or sad and he doesn't know why.

Then he looks up to find that he's not alone anymore. Someone...Malcolm â€“it has to be Malcolm- is standing there, staring down at him as he looks up at the sky, barely casting a shadow without the moonlight. Matt doesn't know whether or not to be relieved.

* * *

Malcolm looks down, sees Hayes more contemplative than he's used to. This is the first time he's taken the initiative, been brave enough, to come up here and seek Hayes out. But today frightened him. It was just another reminder of how alone they are, how isolated. 

He looks into Hayes' eyes â€“the only part he can really make out in this light- and sees more sadness than he's ever seen there. Hayes is strong. He's a warrior. Even the deaths of people he cared about and was obviously close to, didn't seem to provoke hurt like this. Hayes looks raw. And just like his beaten vulnerability, it's wrong. Malcolm wants to fix it. He wants, strangely, to protect a man who's never needed protecting from anyone or anything. 

Malcolm doesn't say anything. He doesn't think. All he wants is to make that naked empty look in Hayes' eyes disappear. So he bends down, fumbling with the ties on Hayes' thick woven pants, yanking them down. He can't really see Hayes' cock in the darkness, though he's felt it. It's not long, but it's thick, circumcised, velvety, but always hard before he even touches it. But it's not now. It's soft and just as vulnerable as Hayes himself. And that's not acceptable. So, Malcolm leans down and licks it. He doesn't know why. He cradles Hayes' balls in his hands. They're delicate too, but solid, and he massages them gently. He's never done this before, but he's a guy and he knows what guys like. In fact, he and Hayes are so much alike in so many things that he knows they have to be alike in this.

He doesn't question as his lips close around Hayes' soft flesh, feeling the rush of blood as it hardens. Hayes is warm, unlike his empty bunk, so isolated and cold. And as Hayes starts to leak a slow drip of precum, not unsavory, but strange, into his mouth, Malcolm feels whole in a way he hasn't in a long time. He feels like he's actually _doing_ something meaningful for the first time in a long time. The thing that bothered him about the Navy, almost more than the water, was how pointless it was--there was no challenge to Naval power, hadn't been in fifty years. He couldn't go sailing around when new threats were developing every day beyond the big blue sky, among the stars mariners knew only as guides. And now, he's protecting someone, helping someone, bringing them pleasure.

* * *

Matt's panting. Malcolm's sucking his cock. And, in truth, he's not sure how he feels about that. It's further than he's ever gone with another man before. But he's learning new things every day--like a new language, a new trade, that he might have had a chance at loving someone if he just let himself.

He remembers the last time Hoshi gave him a blowjob. For someone with such a skilled mouth, she wasn't all that good at it. It was either too fast or too slow or too hard or not hard enough, her nails digging into his hips, sometimes hitting the wrong place on his balls. But she always did it, obediently, almost, like she had to make up for something--like every time he went down on her, she had to return the favor. But she couldn't understand that he liked it, that he loved to please her even if she didn't reciprocate. 

And then one day, he put a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her up for a gentle kiss, tasting himself on her lips, and not finding it as erotic as he probably should. And he said:

"Stop."

Malcolm halts almost immediately, executing a pretty skilled martial arts move as he rolls silently to his feet.

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean too..." Malcolm's blushing. He turns to go.

"Malcolm..." Matt says, wanting to explain himself. He's not against what Malcolm was doing. He'd even be willing to try reciprocation, but it's just the wrong time. Most guys would say he's crazy to turn down a good blowjob, but he feels as though he'd be taking advantage of Malcolm somehow, thinking of an old girlfriend while the guy was sucking him off. It's a strange thought, but Matt doesn't dwell on it.

Instead, he looks back up at the stars and shivers.

* * *

Things are tense between them after that. Matt's almost frightened to go up and see Malcolm on his watch at night. And during the day they don't speak and the silence isn't friendly. They snap at each other, having an argument as fierce as their days onboard Enterprise.

"It's too dangerous, Malcolm. Tar'a agrees with me! There's an embargo on Ne'al for a reason. They don't have anything vital to us. It's not worth the risk!"

"The milk of Ren'ala fruit in critical to infant Mil'aka development. We broke the Sil'ala embargo from day one and succeeded. We're the only ship fast enough to do this. We need to do this." Malcolm is starting to sound dangerously like Captain Archer, tortured bleeding heart and all. It's horrifyingly civilian--to think in terms of ethics and grand objectives and hidden meanings instead of the mission at hand, and the risk to the very real men you put in danger every time you issue an order. He always thought that Malcolm was a bit too academic for a soldier.

"So some supplier in Ne'al can charge mothers everything they have to get milk for their infants?" Matt's not under any delusions--sometimes the system of economics can be just as violent as war. 

"It's better than not having it."

"It's none of our goddamned business, Malcolm," Matt shouts, stepping right up in Malcolm's face. They're both red and panting from so much shouting. Tar'a is just standing in a corner, flashing a deep blue of fear and anxiety. It must look like they're about to hit each other. And Matt thinks that it's probably not far from the truth--they've done it before.

"Innocents are dying and it's within out power to stop it. We have a moral obligation..."

"Bullshit. We don't owe them anything, Malcolm. We had a moral obligation to protect our people, our planet. These people killed Chang and McKenzie and Rostov. Or have you forgotten that? They fucking beat me within an inch of my life. I know it's easy for you to forget that, Malcolm, but it's not so easy for me." The Hil'aka are the enemy. They're trapped here with them, persecuted, alive only because they've got knowledge hundreds of years more advanced. "They would have no problem killing us if we weren't so damn useful. And they have no problem killing infants of their own species. Do they really deserve our sympathy?"

Malcolm takes another step, so that they're practically nose to nose. Matt uses his height to loom, looking down at steely grey eyes. Malcolm spits the words, but there's disappointment in them, undeniable. "I thought you were a better man, Hayes."

"I guess I'm not," he growls.

"Well, we're going anyhow."

"Says who?"

"I say. This is my ship."

"I thought we were equal partners in this. Tar'a and I say no. There's no rank here, Malcolm."

"No, Major, but just because we left Earth behind, doesn't mean we can leave behind what makes us human."

That's bullshit if he ever heard it. Matt knows humans. He knows what they're really like. They appear civilized and harmonious when they can afford to--when the enemy's out there in the lonely void of space. But, push comes to shove, he's seen men kill. He's seen them torture and rape and murder because they thought it was fun. He's seen a man turn on his brother to spare his life. He's seen soldiers kill civilians and turned a blind eye. He's killed himself and he knows that Malcolm has too and he can't figure how Malcolm can delude himself like this.

"I'd hate to be circumventing your authority or anything, Lieutenant," he snaps, sarcastically recalling memories of time long past. "But if we're doing this mission you can sail yourself, because I ain't fucking doing it."

Malcolm raises his hands, like he's going to throw a punch. Of course, Matt knows that Malcolm's not going to sucker-punch him, even if he's mad. They've always obeyed some sort of soldier's code of honor, even when they broke all the rest of the rules. Matt turns his back. This argument is over, as far as he's concerned.

He hears Malcolm storm off, as well as Tar'a comment, following him. "I told you he was a seditious influence."

* * *

Hayes pulls at the laces ineffectively, trying to get them tighter.

"Here, let me help you with that," Malcolm offers curtly, not meeting his gaze. When his fingers brush Hayes' forearm, tying the leather-like brace onto his bad arm, Malcolm feels a spark of electricity run through him. It's been a long time since they've touched, and he's found that he misses it. 

After Malcolm's finished and they've both wrapped their fists in cloth, they take the familiar sparing stance. Hayes has agreed to the supply run to Ne'al, but only if they agree that they won't be taken peacefully if captured. They're breaking the law for a good cause, and they're going to be ready to defend themselves.

Tar'a doesn't approve of course, but she's above-deck, tending to the ship and they're down here in one of the just recently emptied storage holds. It smells a little moldy and like Sil'ala fruit, but he doesn't care. He already feels the familiar rush of adrenaline the narrowing of focus, the power.

Malcolm makes the first move--a right hook that Hayes blocks easily.

Malcolm smiles, looking at the glint in the major's eye. Hayes has been dying for this, and so has he. They've been soldiers for too long to forget it. Hayes comes at him with a combination, left hook, right jab. He blocks, adding a leg sweep.

Hayes isn't caught off balance though. He just grins. "Going to have to do better than that, Lieutenant."

Malcolm grunts, throwing three more punches. He's mad now. Hayes is taunting him, teasing him like he did before. The fourth punch connects with the side of Hayes' jaw. 

Malcolm smiles. It feels good to get hit again. Hayes ducks behind Malcolm and gets him in a throw hold, using that Klingon move Malcolm taught him so long ago.

Malcolm lands on the cloth-padded floor with a smack, but he's quickly back on his feet.

"Never teach an opponent all your tricks," Hayes grins even as they both know that he and Malcolm aren't enemies anymore--they can't be.

Malcolm gets in a kick to the chest and then another Klingon throw move that he hadn't used before. Hayes is on the floor panting when Malcolm smirks and says. "Never do, Major."

Hayes leavers himself up, breathing hard and deep. Malcolm has a wicked smirk on his face and Hayes smirks right back, vaulting to his feet and attacking almost immediately.

It's a blur as they attack and parry, circling their way around the small room, nothing but the sound of grunting and flesh meeting flesh echoing throughout the chamber. Malcolm can't even keep track of the moves anymore as they become one person, one fluid motion, a dance of sorts.

He almost has Hayes pressed up against one of the walls when the major ducks a punch, bowling him over. They land on the floor, with Hayes on top of him, pinning his arms above his head. They both pant, so close that their sweet drips together and mingles. Malcolm wonders why he never noticed how intimate this was before.

He lifts up his legs, and uses them to flip Hayes off him, moving so he's on top, straddling his opponent and grinning.

Hayes' eyes are bright and his lips full as Malcolm licks at a bead of sweat that runs down the side of his face to the corner of his mouth. Their groins are pressed together as Hayes struggles up against him, and the friction is making Malcolm hard. It's a physiological reaction, he knows, to which Hayes himself is not immune.

Hayes doesn't stop struggling though, stubborn bastard. And Malcolm won't let go. This is torture, and yet it feels so good. They haven't touched each other in weeks now and before, Malcolm had really started to get used to it. Going back to just his own hand and fantasies of people far away weren't really cutting it anymore.

"Malcolm," Hayes says, though it sounds more like a plea than a reprimand. His gaze is intense and his eyes so green. The immediacy of the moment is startling against the surrealism of those nights beneath the moonless sky.

Malcolm can't help it. He leans down, licking at another bead of sweat that escapes Hayes' tongue, down his neck. It tastes salty and close and so undeniably _human._ He gets harder.

Hayes is actually trying to thrust against him now, dispensing with the uncoordinated struggles, though his hands are still pinned.

Malcolm needs more friction. He needs more purchase. So he releases Hayes' hands to plant his own on the floor. But once released, those hands come up around him, dragging him, not unwillingly, down for a kiss.

It's violent. Hayes bites down on Malcolm's lower lip, thrusts his tongue deep into his mouth, taking possession of it, claiming it, and Malcolm returns, parries, like their sparring match.

It feels so good. So necessary. Hayes flips them so he's on top, pulling his pants down, and releasing Malcolm's. They're both commando--regulation underwear long worn out. Hayes grabs both their cocks in his fist and they both trust into it, still kissing frantically. Hayes' other hand digs into the skin of Malcolm's back and Malcolm bites down on Hayes' shoulder as he comes.

They go swimming afterwards.

* * *

Okay, so Matt doesn't think he's gay. One time he thought that if Mel so obviously was, then there was a chance that he might be too. You know, some of the women-loving hormones floated over to her side of the womb so maybe some of the male-loving ones floated over to his--not that he knows anything about science. He kept a lookout for any hidden attraction to men, just in case. But other than that one dream he had about going to Olympics in Ancient Greece and wrestling his football coach naked, he didn't show any signs. The Greeks liked things naked after all, and Matt was proud that his dreams happened to be historically accurate. He wasn't the best student, but he'd always been good at history. He chalked it up to that.

And he's always sort of believed that all human beings are inherently bisexual to some degree. Matt is a pretty flexible guy when it comes to living situations. He's lived most of his life in military barracks or on assignment somewhere, so of course he is. And he generally learned to make the best of it. If he's stranded on an alien planet sailing, of all stupid things, weak and hurting and not able to fight, then why the hell should he deprive himself of sex as well, just over a stupid little thing like the only other compatible sexual partner (he doesn't know how the Hil'aka have sex, and he doesn't want to) on the planet happens to be a man? That's just making a fuss, and he's learned from a very early age that you did not make a fuss unless lives depended upon it.

And really, why bother? He's not ashamed that he enjoyed kissing Malcolm. He's not ashamed that ever since their sparring match, all he can think about is the feeling of Malcolm's toned muscles beneath him, of the passion of their lips meeting, of the tickle of Malcolm's beard even as he was biting down on his lip â€“when had Malcolm grown a beard? He's forgotten. It... _they_ make sense.

He misses contact. He misses intimacy. He misses fighting, and that had been more a fight, more passion, more focused, more exciting than anything a girlfriend, not even Hoshi, could give him.

On Earth, Matt wasn't gay. But he's not on Earth.

Which is why he stands, walks up to the deck where he knows Malcolm will be working, standing between the folds of the sails, not white but blue in the starlight, like ghosts. 

Malcolm's standing on the prow, looking down into the sea, as dark and brooding as his thoughts as the ship slices the waves the way Enterprise used to cut through the black of space with life and color and culture and all the things that Hoshi used to say keep the cold at bay. 

"You're overthinking this," Matt says. It's strange--this is only the second time in all of their nocturnal encounters when they've spoken. But it doesn't feel wrong.

Malcolm grunts sarcastically, only his silhouette showing against the starscape, but he's not disagreeing.

So Matt steps up to him, takes his face in his hands and kisses him as desperately as he did before. Because this is what they both need to survive. It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that.

* * *

The first time he lets Malcolm fuck him is pretty much an accident--no joking. They've been having sex for months. It's the best sex that Matt has ever had. They scratch each other, bite each other, beat each other black and blue, and when they come, it's so hard that sometimes Matt blacks out--and all from just friction and blowjobs and sixty-nines, nothing too complicated. 

Tar'a has been avoiding them both, speaking to Malcolm in whispers about it and avoiding Matt. It doesn't matter of course, because he doesn't really like her anyhow.

But, then again, she was the one that suggested the whole penetration thing, oddly. He overheard her asking Malcolm why they did what they did if they could not "share the essence" or something like that. 

And he finds that he wants that, almost desperately. Because that's what all the scratching and clawing and biting is all about, after all. It's about trying to get closer, because the rest of the world is twisted and cruel and the only way to go is in and that's what they needed.

So why not share their essence? Why the hell not? There was no one here to tell them 'no'--no Starfleet, no military command and their stupid frat regs, no judgmental homophobic neoPuritans, no sexy-crazed girlfriend-stealing sister. 

That's when Matt starts noticing Malcolm's ass. He has a nice ass, a firm one. Not as round as Matt's used to, but tight looking and muscular and definitely squeezable. He's squeezed it. So, he starts paying special attention to it, nipping it, kneading it, licking it once. He's make suggestive comments and given lewd looks and done everything he'd be afraid to do with women because it's ungentlemanly, and he's always believed in being both and officer and a gentleman. He'd thought Malcolm would take the hint--being British and all, he should be good at all the subtle innuendo shit. He reads Shakespeare, for christsakes!

But Malcolm is apparently denser than Matt thought, or really good at denying things, because when Matt says, "I think we should consider penetration," when they're lazily making out and stroking each other up on the deck in the midafternoon sun, Malcolm nods and proceeds to stick a finger up Matt's ass.

Of course, before he can protest, Malcolm's found this spot...this spot that a girlfriend of his a long time ago had been particularly obsessed with. He doesn't even remember her name now. But he remembers why he liked her so much as Malcolm crocks his finger, sending a wave of heat and need spiraling through him. And by that time, he figures, the best way to share their essence for the first time might be just a little different than he'd planned. Flexibility on the battlefield had always been one of Matt's strengths.

Though the next time, he's going to put up much more of a fight.


	7. Chapter 7

> Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,  
> Which sky and ocean smote,  
> Like one that hath been seven days drowned  
> My body lay afloat;  
> But swift as dreams, myself I found  
> Within the Pilot's boat.

â€œThey want to induct you into the international merchantâ€™s guild. This is a good thing. I do not know why you should complain,â€ Tarâ€™a chides impatiently.

â€œItâ€™s just . . . itâ€™s been twelve years, Tarâ€™a. Iâ€™ve been doing this for twelve bloody years without membership to this guild and Iâ€™ve been the best for ten of those years. Why now? And why do I need to?â€

â€œI agree,â€ Matt says, frowning. 

Every tactical sense Malcolm has is saying that this seems fishy, but living with the Milâ€™aka has certainly taught him that he canâ€™t always trust his instincts as might apply to humans when faced with another culture.

â€œThe Guild is powerful, Malâ€™colm. You do not wish to anger them. A rejection would surely do that.â€

â€œWe werenâ€™t good enough before. Why should we be good enough now? If they need us, then they can only hurt us.â€ Malcolm has begun to think like a merchant. Itâ€™s taken years, but he finally has. 

â€œYou are males and you are Takâ€™ai, of course they were suspicious. Would you not have been?â€

â€œThatâ€™s besides the point,â€ Malcolm spits, giving Matt a silencing look as he chuckles. They both know that heâ€™s sometimes been a little bit paranoid, but Mattâ€™s supposed to be on his side.

â€œItâ€™s a trick. They want to shut us down. They want to attack us or something.â€

Tarâ€™a looks skeptical, amused. â€œYou forget about whom you are speaking, Takâ€™ai. The Guild would never resort to violence.â€

â€œNot in itâ€™s pure form,â€ Malcolm mumbles. They have come to learn much about the Milâ€™aka version of violence over the years. â€œIt still seems suspicious to me.â€

â€œYou must go. There will certainly be consequences if you do not.â€

Malcolm and Matt share a look. Theyâ€™ll go, but theyâ€™re not going to be happy about it.

â€œAnd you?â€

â€œI am already a guild member. My mother was on the board for a time. I received honorary membership. I will stay and tend the ship.â€

â€œFine. But stay close to the coast. Iâ€™ll give you coordinates.â€

* * *

â€œGod, Walters would have eaten this up,â€ Matt whispers in Malcolmâ€™s ear. Of course, if Walters had survived the crash, they might never have been in this mess. An anthropologist probably would have noticed what four soldiers and an engineer could not. But they do not have time to dwell. It is enough that they have finally gotten to the point where they can mention it.

One of the board members of the guild is standing at the Milâ€™akan equivalent of a podium, decorated with a variety of seashells and garlands of flowers. They are in the open air, fires lit all around a great stone amphitheater on a bluff overlooking the sea. Somewhere out in the harbor, Tarâ€™a has parked their ship. A long time ago, Malcolm christened it Enterprise, painting a name the Milâ€™aka could not understand on the side of the well-worn wooden hull.

The air is calm, still with a hint of electricity and thick and humid like summer in the Tropics. Their clothes cling, but the Milâ€™aka seem at home, flashing what Tarâ€™a has assured them is a polite shade of dull green. This is the first real social function theyâ€™ve been to. Even after all these years, most of what they know of Milâ€™akan culture comes from Tarâ€™a. As traders, they need only know the customs of the ports, nothing more. This night has already been taxing on their limited language skills.

The speaker begins the meeting with a tale about how the first guild was formed â€“ the beginning of Milâ€™akan society. â€œAnd so, the â€˜aka, all separate beings, consumed with warlust and territoriality, could not survive the coming storm. The first Milâ€™aka sent out a warning flash, golden and bright, the first true language, like the spark from the Creator that painted the entire world in color. All the separate â€˜aka took notice. Some thought that the first Milâ€™aka was bluffing, trying to scare them away so that she might gather more ulukâ€™ai for herself or impress a far-off male. But the wise â€˜aka, that would become the members of the first Guild, believed the solitary â€˜aka. Now some â€˜aka had ulukâ€™ai hides that could be stretched to make covers over their crops but they did not have wood with which to prop them up or with which to make fire. Others had wood but did not have skins, or enough food stores, or the hard rope from the woven bark of the Silâ€™ala tree. And so they met together and they traded peacefully, as this most esteemed Guild does to this day. We are here today to invite two new members to join in this great tradition.â€

â€œSmile and look pretty,â€ Matt murmurs under his breath, nudging Malcolm, who rolls his eyes. 

The speaker continues. â€œThey are takâ€™ai, but they have done much for the field of shipping in the time in which we have known them. They have created the fastest ship in all the seas, sailed with a small crew but with efficiency and great entrepreneurial skill. Inspired by their designs and by the great forces of competition, Milâ€™akan shipbuilding has progressed swiftly. And no one will argue with me when I say that their goods have always been transported with the best of care. Please, takâ€™ai. Malâ€™colm and Hayâ€™es, please approach.â€

Theyâ€™re still trying to smile, despite the fact that the Milâ€™aka wonâ€™t understand, as they stand and make their way to the podium. Theyâ€™re both wearing fresh green tunics, hoping that it will express all the emotion they will need to. 

â€œNow,â€ the speaker continues. â€œIf there is anyone in this gathering that disagrees with this admission to our company, please let it be known now, before our covenant of protection and aid is made, in perpetuity.â€

There is silence, and then a flash of discontent, a figure standing out in the sea of green, soon melting to yellow in shock. A figure steps forward, and Matt recognizes it immediately, taking an almost reflexive step nearer to Malcolm. Itâ€™s Rajâ€™a, his captor of long ago. Much has changed about her, including the two red streaks, signifying a double bankruptcy. 

The speaker looks shocked, but stands aside, allowing her to come to the podium and speak. Matt looks over to meet Malcolmâ€™s eyes, showing his fear for once. There is no way this can turn out well.

â€œThese two would like to join our guild, yes? But they are a liability.â€

There is the equivalent of a gasp from the audience. A flash of color rolls like a wave through the crowd, a rainbow of shock and disappointment. Liability is a very bad word on Milâ€™aka. Itâ€™s a bad word in any group whose interest is collective security, nothing more, nothing less.

Matt inches closer and the two of them automatically begin to take up a defensive stance â€“ not that the Milâ€™aka would know.

â€œThey have violated embargos before and they will do so again.â€

The speaker looks doubtful. She is very obviously mistrusting of the two-time bankrupted mark marring Rajâ€™aâ€™s clear skin. Matt wonders briefly why Rajâ€™a would be doing this. She hurt him, yes, but never out of hatred or malcontent. And she has nothing to gain by this.

The speaker turns to them, serious. â€œIs this true?â€

Of course, theyâ€™d be out of their minds to say yes. The penalty of violating the embargo is death. Malcolm clears his throat and speaks, not changing his stance in the slightest. â€œNo. This is clearly an act of desperation. We have never violated an Embargo.â€

â€œI have proof,â€ Rajâ€™a declares. But what proof is there to garner? These people donâ€™t have DNA dating and sequencing technology; they donâ€™t have surveillance cameras; they donâ€™t even have photographs! And after eleven years? â€œThis one,â€ Rajâ€™a points to Matt. â€œOnce belonged to me. He was a hopeless case of war-lust. I have the papers signing him over to me.â€

There are shouts and screams. They blend together, but itâ€™s clear that none of them are protests. â€˜I knew it!â€™ â€˜How horrible!â€™ â€˜Off with their heads!â€™ more likely. 

The crowd oscillates, swarms like a great quivering mass of Jell-o. Malcolm meets Mattâ€™s eyes for a second and all the passionate determination, all the fight is back in them, like it was lurking there all along. Theyâ€™re probably going to die here, running through the mass of angry creatures whose planet they never really called home, but theyâ€™ll die fighting.

Up the steps and through the throng, bruised and battered but together . . . when they go over the cliff, theyâ€™re holding hands.

* * *

Itâ€™s been a long time since heâ€™s felt pain like this. He supposes that pain isnâ€™t something you remember. What good would there be in that? He shifts slightly, groaning and forcing eyes that feel welded shut to open. 

There are shapes hovering above him, dark on light. Malcolm blinks up at them hazily. 

â€œMalcolm? Malcolm? Can you hear me?â€ That voice . . . itâ€™s all wrong. Itâ€™s not Mattâ€™s soft but fierce drawl. Nor is it the stuttering speech of Tarâ€™a and the Milâ€™aka. Itâ€™s deep, eager, an open enthusiasm that all on Milâ€™al are incapable of. Malcolm tried to force his eyes wider. This voice is familiar.

â€œWha . . .â€ he asks â€“ throat parched and dry.

Warm hands squeeze his shoulders. â€œMalcolm. Thank god. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.â€

And suddenly, thick arms surround him, a muscular chest, like Mattâ€™s but the smell, the smell is different, thick and musky and . . . he hasnâ€™t. He doesnâ€™t even know if itâ€™s a smell he knew before. Everything on Milâ€™al is sweet and fragrant â€“ colorful, fresh like the sea. 

He settles into the hug, real flesh on flesh, like heâ€™s gripping a for a lifeline . . . somehow . . . someway . . . someone _different._

This time, when he opens his eyes, he sees. â€œTravis?â€

Travis is wearing a simple grey sweater, fastened strangely at the neck â€“ fashion, he supposes â€“ such a strange concept that beings with so many different colors to adorn themselves with should all choose to dress the same. Travis looks older. His face is broader now, more hard lines and less youthful curves. Behind him â€“ the twisted metal bulwark of an honest-to-god spaceship, the hum of the engines beneath them, something Malcolm didnâ€™t even know heâ€™d missed. 

Malcolm sighs. â€œThatâ€™s a lovely sound.â€

Travis looks around him for a moment, questioning, before heâ€™s smiling at Malcolm â€“ his same youthful grin. Itâ€™s surreal, being here like this â€“ a lifetimeâ€™s spent in another world, a world of sailing ships and strange creatures and a moonless sky, and then, poof, heâ€™s sitting here on an heavenly soft bed, looking into eager eyes.

â€œWeâ€™ve been looking for you Malcolm. Every time weâ€™re in the sector, we look. I never thought . . . after all these years . . . God, Malcolm.â€ 

Travis hovers close as Malcolm levers himself off the bed. He feels tired and bruised, but nothing seems broken. â€œMatt?â€

â€œMajor Hayes? Heâ€™s fine, Malcolm. There are some old wounds . . . I assume you know about them. Our doctorâ€™s working on him now. Heâ€™ll be good as new in no time.â€ Travis flashes him a brilliant smile. â€œSo, how are you? How did you . . . I mean, we saw you getting mobbed and everything, so I assume this awards ceremony thing didnâ€™t go over so well, but other than that?â€

Malcolm shrugs. Thereâ€™s so much to tell, so many things. Emotions bubble to the surface, rich, tickling his memory like champagne, and he canâ€™t say anything to describe it all â€“ the loneliness, the surrealness, the connection despite it all. What can he say that will encompass the sea breeze soft on his face, the desperate need coiling in his belly, the quiet calm of a darkened night dozing among the sails? He has barely been gone and already it is fading, so different from this world of people sailing through space that it could simply be a dream.

â€œWe survived. You? Iâ€™d have thought you would have made captain by now.â€

Travis chuckles. â€œI have. Captain Travis Mayweather of the merchant ship Atlas at your service.â€

â€œAtlas? I always thought of him as more of a . . . steady character.â€

â€œThe man who built her was thinking about an actual Atlas, with all the maps. At least, I think . . .â€

Malcolm snorts. â€œEngineers.â€ Trip had always been like that â€“ he was well educated in Starfleet, but really, the book-learning was the rubber-stamp on his practical knowledge. Trip couldâ€™ve built a ship without ever attending school â€“ not one like Enterprise, but he couldâ€™ve built one. 

â€œYeah.â€

â€œSo, why did you leave Starfleet? Not the food, I hope?â€

Travis smiles awkwardly. Malcolm remembers just enough to know that maybe heâ€™d missed the cues to stay away from this particular subject of conversation. Travis speaks carefully, choosing his words. â€œThe world has changed a lot in the past years, Malcolm. The captainâ€™s an admiral now. He helped negotiate the Federation. You know how he was always talking about it? An interplanetary alliance of trade and mutual defense? Well, he succeeded.â€

â€œThatâ€™s wonderful news.â€ Malcolm always hated the lawlessness of the many places they visited. Trading posts, especially, were never without their shady characters. 

â€œIt is. But, Starfleet has changed too. Theyâ€™ve been so busy hammering out trade agreements and building space stations and patrolling the newly designated borders . . . itâ€™s hard to find the exploration in that anymore. I mean, Iâ€™m sure itâ€™ll change, once the Federationâ€™s truly on itâ€™s feet, but itâ€™s been ten years and it still seems like that dayâ€™s a long way away.â€

Malcolm nods. Enterprise, as wonderful as it was, had taught him so much about mistakes, about the dangers among the stars. And Milâ€™al had shown him both the value and the price of order. 

â€œAnd then there are the new laws. Thatâ€™s why we couldnâ€™t just beam you out of there. The first law â€“ the prime directive, is not to interfere in the affairs of pre-warp civilizations.â€ That was a lesson Malcolm had already learned hard, even before Milâ€™al. But when push came to shove . . . he didnâ€™t obey it. When push came to shove, he and Matt changed things simply by being there. They refused to give in, to burry their war-lust, their _care_ for creatures that clearly did not care about them. 

â€œAnd everyone else?â€

â€œOnly the captain and Tâ€™Pol stayed in the service. Trip does freelance work, thought still mostly for Starfleet. Hoshiâ€™s got herself a family and a part-time professorship. Phlox went home to Denobula. Even Chef . . . he opened up a five-star restaurant in San Francisco.â€

Malcolm nods, trying to recall, to match names and faces . . . to make himself believe all these ghosts that haunted his imagination for so long were really real.

Travis takes him down a corridor, door opening to a room, sterile white against the grunge of the rest of the place. Matt is laid out on a bed there, arm again in a brace. He looks troubled in his sleep, but young. Malcolm reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it lightly. He needs to know Mattâ€™s here, needs him to verify all this as real.

* * *

Mattâ€™s eyes creep slowly open, he sees Malcolm looking down on him and smiles a lazy smile. â€œWe beat them?â€

Someone is laughing in the background, but all Matt can see is Malcolmâ€™s face, dark against a halo of white. He squeezes Mattâ€™s hand. â€œNot exactly. We were rescued.â€

â€œRescued?â€ Matt had stopped dreaming of that long ago. And he had never thought of Malcolm as a dreamer.

Malcolm sighs, looking over Mattâ€™s shoulder to the doctor for permission before helping him sit up. â€œWeâ€™re on a the merchant ship _Atlas._ â€

â€œSilly name,â€ Matt says. He must be dreaming.

â€œWell, you can take that up with Captain Mayweather.â€

Mattâ€™s eyes bulge as Travis steps forward to squeeze his shoulder. â€œGood to see you, Major.â€ Major? Itâ€™s been a long time since anyone thought to refer to him as Major.

â€œTravis?â€ Matt blinks . . . confused. 

But Malcolm is squeezing his hand. This canâ€™t be a dream. It canâ€™t be, because if it is, then Malcolmâ€™s sharing it. Malcolm might have been the only thing that was real on Milâ€™al, his one anchor, and heâ€™s the same here, looking at this face so familiar, yet completely unfamiliar beside him. 

â€œWeâ€™re going to take you home,â€ Travis says.

Matt has no idea where home is anymore, only that he hopes that it was Milâ€™al that was a dream, that he can return a soldier, just as proud and honorable as he remembers.

* * *

Instead of the messy workroom/apartment Malcolm was expecting of Tripâ€™s home, he finds a quaint little suburban house, white picket-fence and one-point-five children and all (the point-five from his wife, Nanâ€™s previous marriage). 

â€œWelcome to my humble abode,â€ he grins, just as sunny and almost-manic as Malcolm remembers. The place is certainly messy, but filled with remote-control spaceship models (he recognizes Enterprise) and dolls in mismatched clothing (unless thatâ€™s the style these days). Malcolm steps carefully over a mechanical teddybear and about a hundred holographic baseball cards as he follows Trip through the sunlit living room and into a large bedroom with a queen sized bed with red sheets and an antique diving helmet and a bunch of design schematics for enterprise that Malcolm recognizes.

Trip smiles at the recognition. â€œWhen heâ€™s in town, Jon usually stays here.â€

That explains why this room is actually clean, with a level of meticulousness missing from even the clean parts of the rest of the house.

â€œOh. I donâ€™t mean to intrude . . .â€ Malcolm knows that Trip and his former captain have been lovers since long before he met them. Perhaps this â€˜Nanâ€™ about whom Malcolm has heard very little, is just a convenient mother for the children theyâ€™d always wanted.

â€œDonâ€™t be silly, Malcolm. Itâ€™s no intrusion. Iâ€™m just so glad to have you back, and if Jon werenâ€™t tied-up in high profile negotiations on Vulcan, heâ€™d be here to welcome you as well. Hell, he was ready to ditch them for a few days when he heard, but Tâ€™Pol stopped him. They both say â€˜hi,â€™ by the way.â€

â€œSo you and the captain . . .â€

Trip frowns. â€œHeâ€™s an admiral now and . . . actually, that about sums it up. I wanted a family. He wanted a United Federation of Planets. I swear itâ€™s just something that Daniels planted in his mind â€“ he always wanted to settle down before.â€ Trip sounds resentful, the wounds so obviously still raw. Malcolm doesnâ€™t blame him; they were together for more than ten years. â€œBut, what can you do to fight destiny? It got a little nasty for a while, but weâ€™re friends now. It just goes to show you that things change â€“ people change. And sometimes all you can do is go with it.â€

Malcolm nods, absently, wondering where Matt is now. Is he with the parents that pushed him into the military, but loved him more than Malcolmâ€™s did their son? Or is he catching up with old friends? Lovers? Is he on a military base somewhere, still debriefing? Is he happy? Is he moving on?

* * *

Matt finds that heâ€™s uncharacteristically nervous. After youâ€™ve been in the heat of battle so many times, thereâ€™s very little else in the world that can truly scare you. But he hasnâ€™t seen her for twelve years. They used to have something -a spark- so many years ago. He wonders if she spent as much time thinking about him as he did thinking about her. He was trapped alone on an alien planet with only Malcolm for company, granted, so sheâ€™s probably thought of him less.

But he really shouldnâ€™t worry because one of the things he loves most about her is how much she cares about people, about remembering them. Sheâ€™d take the time to memorize fifteen declension and five genders of nouns just to be polite to an alien sheâ€™d spend all of five minutes talking too, so of course sheâ€™ll remember him - even if she is Professor Sato-Diaz now, married with children and just as beautiful.

Still, his palms are sweating and heâ€™s running his fingers through his hair. Then the door opens and the noise on the other side is half-way between a squeal and a sob.

â€œMatt?!â€

And then he finds a familiar frame in his arms, a familiar heat, like all the much more mundane fantasies of just holding her against him, feeling that small bit of contact. 

Sheâ€™s crying. Sheâ€™s crying and she canâ€™t stop, right into his jacket the way she did when she found out that Captain Archer had died on the Xindi weapon, the way she did when Malcolm and Trip went missing on that supply mission, the way she did when they stopped back on Earth and he took her to his cousin Jennyâ€™s wedding. 

He places a hand in the middle of her delicate back, feeling the skin through her thin cotton jacket.

â€œOh God, Matt. I always hoped . . . Malcolm and Ken and Sara and Karen and Rossie?â€

â€œMalcolm and I were the only ones to make it back.â€ He doesnâ€™t want to tell her the details of their failure â€“ not just yet, though he doesnâ€™t doubt that he will. All those years and even when they tried to discuss it, he and Malcolm could never truly come to terms â€“ they werenâ€™t that type of people. But Hoshi is. If anybody can heal him, he knows that sheâ€™s the one. 

â€œOh, Matt, Iâ€™m so sorry.â€ She hugs him tighter to her, smelling of cinnamon and strange exotic spices, different than she used to, but still wonderful. 

After minutes of just standing in the doorway holding each other, she pulls back and they look each other over. She hasnâ€™t changed. She looks as young and beautiful as he remembers, though her hair is shorter and more mature looking and sheâ€™s wearing a white cotton blazer and a skirt and blouse instead of the far less feminine blue coverall heâ€™s used to. Her eyes are wide and tearstained and itâ€™s clear that sheâ€™s tracing the lines of new scars down his face, how his hair is graying at the sides, how he still reflexively holds his left arm a little awkwardly. 

â€œHow long are you here?â€ she asks, after heâ€™s sure sheâ€™s seen everything â€“ sadness and regrets and longing.

â€œAs long as you want me to be. Iâ€™ve been gone so long, Iâ€™ve almost lost the ability to plan.â€ 

She looks at him quizzically. â€œMatt Hayes not scheduling his morning sparing practice at 0600 precisely with a square meal of eggs and bacon and orange juice followed by a five mile run and a briefing session?â€

â€œYou still remember my schedule?â€

She laughs, high and giggly like he remembers, before deepening her voice to impersonate him. â€œI canâ€™t stay tonight, baby, the men will be expecting me at 0600 sharp and a commander has to show stalwartness and strength of character and imaginable analness for his underlings.â€

He laughs, reaching out to poke her, flirtatiously. â€œHoshi Sato! I hope thatâ€™s not what youâ€™ve been telling people about me while I was away.â€

â€œWhy? Itâ€™s true.â€ She winks and giggles again. â€œMatt, I missed you so much.â€

â€œI missed you too, Hosh.â€

She smiles warmly then looks at her watch. â€œOops. I was just on my way out to grab the little one from soccer practice. You wanna come?â€

Mattâ€™s never been much for children. Heâ€™s never considered a family with his job. He lost a father to the service and he would never put a child of his own through that. But this is Hoshiâ€™s kid and heâ€™s missed her. â€œSure.â€

â€œBut thereâ€™s someone I want you to meet first.â€ Her smile is secretive and strangely serious. Sheâ€™s biting her lower lip as she takes him by the hand and leads him through an immaculately clean but colorful house with dark wood floors and white walls and sunlight filtering in from every possible angle. 

As they make their way up carpeted stairs he hears the sound of music â€“ a piano playing a tune haunting and familiar and just beyond reach, maybe from an old jazz pianist at one of those smoky bars late at night when heâ€™d had one too many, maybe from one of the tunes Malcolm would whistle when he thought no one was listening, maybe a piece of the music Hoshi always insisted was playing when they were making love, despite Commander Tuckerâ€™s repeated reassurances that all the bulkheads â€“ especially the one between his room and hers, were completely soundproof.

She cracks open a door to reveal a kid â€“ about ten or eleven years old- sitting at an old-fashioned mahogany grand piano, hunched over the keyboard in concentration. He looks strangely familiar, broad-shouldered but still skinny like most boys his age, longish hair hanging in his eyes just a little and a look of concentration on his face that reminds Matt of Hoshi sitting on his bunk, PADDS spread out before her, working on some language or another.

â€œSam!â€ Hoshi yells several times before the boy comes out of what seems to be a near-trance and looks up.

â€œI thought you were going to pick up Fooz, Mom.â€ The boy says, looking back to the piano.

â€œFooz?â€

â€œIt was a hard labor. I was so grateful to get him out of me I told Phlox he could name him.â€

Matt chuckles.

â€œSam! Whereâ€™re your manners, young man? We have a guest I want you to meet before we go get your brother.â€

Sam looks slightly annoyed, but stands obediently and trots over to them. â€œSorry, Mom.â€

He sticks out his hand. â€œHi, Iâ€™m Sam Sato.â€

Matt smiles a little at the kidâ€™s clear longing to get back to his piano. â€œIâ€™m Major Matthew Hayes, but you can call me Matt.â€

â€œNice to meet you, Matt.â€ Thatâ€™s when the kid looks up and Matt sees his eyes â€“ green and intense and far too familiar. 

â€œNice to . . .â€ heâ€™s speechless for a second. â€œNice to meet you too.â€

â€œYouâ€™re going to be late again, Mom,â€ Sam says without looking at a clock, as far as Matt can tell.

Hoshi smiles. â€œOkay, Hon, get back to your practice.â€ And, over her shoulder as she practically drags a still flabbergasted Matt down the hall after her. â€œDonâ€™t burn the house down while weâ€™re gone.â€

â€œYeah right, Mom. I wonâ€™t.â€

â€œHeâ€™ll still be playing when we get back,â€ Hoshi says. â€œWonâ€™t have moved. Heâ€™s worse than me when I used to sit down and watch the international channels on tv.â€

â€œYou always said you wished youâ€™d learned to play the piano,â€ Matt says, in a daze. The kidâ€™s the right age and those eyes . . .

â€œI know. Heâ€™s trying to teach me, but he doesnâ€™t have much patience for my â€˜imprecise keystrokes.â€™â€ She laughs. But then turns serious as Matt has to be lead through the rest of the house. â€œLook, Iâ€™m sorry for springing this on you like this. It was kinda cruel. But you shouldâ€™ve seen the look on your face.â€

â€œBut we were always so careful.â€

â€œI always knew it would be my luck to be one of the .001 percent that things donâ€™t work for. But I couldnâ€™t . . . not after I lost you. And, believe it or not, heâ€™s the best thing that ever happened to me. I loved getting the first jump on all these new languages, but my heart was never fully in it. I joined more because Jon asked me than anything else.â€

â€œI remember.â€ Heâ€™d asked Hoshi if there was something between the two of them and Hoshi nearly died laughing. The captain was more like an overprotective older brother to her â€“ a friend of the family. 

She smiles warmly. â€œYou should have seen him when he found out. He wanted to be polite and congratulate me, but you could see that he wanted to kill whoever it was that would make me leave Starfleet to raise a child on my own. You know the vein in his temple that goes when heâ€™s mad? I swear he was going to have an aneurism. Of course when he found out it was you he tried to look guilty, but I think he wouldâ€™ve tried to strangle your ghost if he came across it.â€

â€œAm I in danger then?â€

â€œNo, I think twelve years and a considerable portion of his paycheck spent spoiling his godson absolutely rotten have calmed him a bit. Heâ€™s responsible for that monstrous grand piano, you know â€“ had the thing beamed in from some antique shop in Germany. Between him and Trip and your sister . . .â€

â€œMel? You contacted her?â€

â€œShe contacted me, actually. By the time they were finally ready to declare you missing in action and we made it back to Earth, I was far enough along to show at the funeral. She put two and two together. After the baby was born she started hitting on me, though.â€

â€œThatâ€™s Mel for you. Canâ€™t keep her hands off anything that she perceives as being mine.â€

â€œI always thought she had some . . . issues.â€

â€œI was the model son. She was the black sheep â€“ bisexual, hippie, female, in a traditional military family. Not that I turned out much different in the end.â€

â€œWhat do you mean, Matt?â€

He tells her. He tells her everything.

* * *

Malcolm opens the door to find himself locked in a bearhug with his former captain. â€œMalcolm. So good to see you.â€ Archer pulls back quickly to look Malcolm over. â€œThe beard suits you.â€

Malcolm rubs at it absently. Heâ€™s long forgotten a time when he didnâ€™t have one. â€œThanks, Captain.â€

â€œItâ€™s Admiral, now. But I think that you can call me â€˜Jon.â€™â€

â€œCongratulations, Jon,â€ he smiles. Archer looks slightly taken aback, like he wasnâ€™t expecting Malcolm to take him up on his offer.

It felt natural, even though he knows it shouldnâ€™t. He tries to explain himself. â€œThe Milâ€™aka believe ranks are . . . a prelude to war and thus a crime.â€ He feels stupid saying it to the man he addressed as â€˜Captainâ€™ and â€˜Sirâ€™ for four years. 

Archer smiles a strange half-smile, still looking put off, though itâ€™s hard to tell. Malcolm is having trouble reading emotions now that theyâ€™re not color-coded. â€œI know, Malcolm. I read your report.â€

â€œIâ€™m glad.â€

â€œIt made for quite some reading,â€ Archer says, shucking his coat and hanging in the hallway closet without pause, obviously at home here.

â€œIndeed.â€ He doesnâ€™t want to talk about it â€“ especially not with Archer. Heâ€™s ashamed of his behavior, suddenly. He was Archerâ€™s trusted armory officer and security chief for four years only to go so civilian . . . go native. He knows that Archer himself probably doesnâ€™t care â€“the man has bigger things to worry about now- but still, he feels wrong somehow, like heâ€™s lying to the captain just standing here, being who heâ€™s not.

â€œSo, I was wondering about the Hilâ€™akan custom of . . .â€

Luckily, Malcolm is saved by the bell, or rather by the half-yell, half-screech coming from Tripâ€™s wife, Nan. â€œJonathan! How good to see you! How long have the negotiations kept you away?â€

Malcolm can see the screws tightening around his former captainâ€™s skull. He doesnâ€™t blame him. Nan is shapely and disgustingly giddy, with rosy cheeks and blonde ringlets that Malcolm would have thought should be confined to Shirley Temple or some other disgustingly sweet five-year-old with a lollypop. Sheâ€™s from Georgia, never worked a day in her life other than cooking whatâ€™s probably the best fried catfish that Malcolmâ€™s ever had (and being friends with Trip, heâ€™s tried quite a lot). And sheâ€™s dumb as dirt, only louder.

â€œTwo and a half months,â€ Archer practically grunts, smiling politely as Nan leads him into the living room.

â€œWell, Iâ€™ve got Malcolm in the guest room, but youâ€™re welcome to the futon in the study. Oh, Jonathan. How is Vulcan this time of year? I hear itâ€™s lovely. Iâ€™m not one for deserts myself, but supposedly the sunsets are absolutely breathtaking.â€

â€œYes, they are,â€ Archer says simply, looking tired and old, hair gone a rich silver. Heâ€™s still fit though, trim and handsome.

â€œHave you ever been to Vulcan, Malcolm?â€

He shrugs. â€œOnce or twice.â€

â€œAnd what did you think of it?â€

â€œDry.â€ He used to love that â€“ the calm austerity, not a drop of water, no great naval history, no fear. Now, he thinks he needs the water to survive, that maybe heâ€™ll move out here to California, stay on the coast.

â€œHm. Well, Jonathan, letâ€™s get you settled . . .â€

Then Trip shows up at the top of the stairway, smile painted on his face. Nan doesnâ€™t seem to notice that itâ€™s fake, but Malcolm does. â€œJon! Good to see you, buddy!â€ He strides purposefully down the stairs, giving Archer a very manly embrace, full of back pats and heavy laughter. When they pull away, both their eyes are sad.

â€œDinnerâ€™s already ready, gentlemen, so Iâ€™ll show you to you room, Jonathan and . . .â€

â€œI think I can find it myself, Nan. Thank you.â€

Archer slinks off and Trip sighs. Clearly, theyâ€™re not over each other yet. Malcolm wouldnâ€™t expect them to be.

Nan has made steak tonight, with green beans and mashed potatoes. Itâ€™s frighteningly American-domestic. Malcolm sighs.

The conversation is amiable, though tense. Nan keeps steering the conversation towards what Archer has been up to, even as he and Trip try to bring it back to more comfortable topics. 

â€œAnd I think that the Federation is doing a wonderful job with those new ships. What were they called, honey?â€ Nan asks, smiling pleasantly.

â€œPatrol vessels,â€ Trip says, flopping his napkin over onto his plate.

â€œNo . . . no, the official name.â€

â€œThey donâ€™t need an official name, Nan! Thatâ€™s what they are. Theyâ€™re not for exploring. Theyâ€™re lightweight, heavily armed, small cargo-load, patrol vessels.â€

â€œWell, Trip, we need to defend out border,â€ Archer says with a false smile.

â€œTheyâ€™re not our borders, Jon! Theyâ€™re not our responsibility! The Vulcans have a whole fleet of technologically advanced, _defensive_ ships. Why donâ€™t they go out and do some of the defending?â€

â€œTrip, weâ€™re the ones that pushed this alliance. We have to show faith in it. The Vulcans will follow. They want safety and security as much as anybody, but itâ€™s all a very new concept to them. We need to show them that we are capable of defending . . . of doing our part.â€

â€œDonâ€™t feed me the company line, Jon! Iâ€™ve heard it a thousand times from that asshole, Reynolds that youâ€™ve got assigned to deal with contractors.â€

â€œTrip, itâ€™s not the company line. Itâ€™s what I really think. Tâ€™Pol agrees with me.â€

â€œOh, thatâ€™s right . . . Tâ€™Pol. Tâ€™Pol, still as professional and emotionless as ever? Still willing to put everything aside for business . . . chalk it up to a need fulfilled?â€

Trip is fuming, turning red. Heâ€™s more dangerous-looking now than Malcolm remembers. Perhaps, this is the war-lust the Milâ€™aka talk about. Trip had been itching for a fight the moment Archer got here.

Archer fumes right back, as passionate together as they always were. â€œDonâ€™t bring Tâ€™Pol into this. You . . . you made your choice, Trip. Iâ€™m free to make mine.â€

â€œAnd Iâ€™m glad I did!â€

Malcolm wonders what Nan makes of all this â€“ if she knows.

â€œThen let me live my life! Iâ€™m trying to do my duty . . . defend my planet.â€

â€œYou used to be in this for the exploring, Jon. You used to do it for the sheer adventure alone. You werenâ€™t concerned about defense. You didnâ€™t care about politics! You . . . you used to be passionate.â€

Archer sighs. â€œPeople change, Trip. Even when they spend every moment together, they change.â€

A beat and then Nan puts on an even faker smile than the one she usually wears and says. â€œSo . . . whoâ€™s for dessert?â€


	8. Chapter 8

> Still as a slave before his lord,  
> The Ocean hath no blast;  
> His great bright eye most silently  
> Up to the Moon is cast--
> 
> If he may know which way to go;  
> For she guides him smooth or grim  
> See, brother, see! how graciously  
> She looketh down on him.

Archer has retreated to his room, claiming need of an early night, but Malcolm can't remember Archer ever being one to turn down a nightcap, if offered. He can practically feel the tension in the house. Of course, it doesn't surprise him. Trip and Archer were so in love. They practically died for each other so many times. Everyone could see it, even if most of the crew thought it was just platonic. They were lovers for more than a decade, of course the aftermath was going to be as bad as what he remembers of his parents marriage.

"Maybe you should apologize," Malcolm says.

Trip looks up from where he's pouring them each a glass of bourbon. "Why? Everythin' I said was true."

Why's he doing this? Trip's not going to back down. Sometimes he's the sweetest most sensitive guy in the world, but when something hurts him he can be stubborn, macho and righteous beyond belief. 

"Because he did what he had to do and you're just making it difficult for him."

"He hurt me Malcolm. He hurt me more than you can imagine. He's lucky I can still speak to him."

"And seeing you, married with the family he wanted to have with you isn't supposed to hurt him?"

"He never wanted that." That's a lie. He doesn't even need to hear the baseless bitterness in Trip's tone to realize it.

"Maybe he just doesn't want it as much as you did."

"Since when have you become the emotional expert?"

Malcolm swallows. Before he wouldn't have taken that as an insult, but he finds himself ducking his head. He doesn't know when he changed, but Trip certainly notices, because he sighs, looking forlorn.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. Let's just drop the subject, okay?"

Malcolm nods.

"So, you and Hayes trapped together for twelve years. That must've been fun."

Trip's trying to make a joke, but Malcolm's not really in the mood. "It had its ups and downs."

"No kidding. So did you guys get into another fistfight?"

Malcolm tries not to think about it--the sparring sessions that almost always lead to them naked and panting or sometimes even too frantic to remove clothing at all. He thinks about how fighting became foreplay, how it lost practically all significance, the way it had on the rest of Mil'aka. He gulps.

"If you don't want to talk about it..."

But he does. He needs someone else to know. "Trip, on the planet...Matt...Hayes and I...our relationship changed."

"Well, you obviously can't afford to keep trying to beat the shit out of each other if you're the only two humans on the planet, can you?" Trip chuckles.

This is so hard--too hard, even though Trip is his best friend and admittedly bisexual himself. He can't imagine everyone knowing. But...but he needs to tell someone. He needs for it to have been real, not just isolated and packed away with the civilization that conquered war and all the changes he and Matt wrought upon it. Everyone else has changed, why should he and Matt stay the same?

"No...we...we eventually became lovers, Trip."

Trip frowns a little, squinting the way he does when he's concentrating on some complex engineering problem. "Hmm...I mean, I sure got that there was tension there between the two of you from the beginning, but I always thought you'd kill each other before you'd do anything."

"Well, twelve years with the Hil'aka can do a fair bit to condition away the impulse to kill a person."

"I hear ya, Malcolm. Look, there's no need to be ashamed of what happened. You were literally the last two humans on the planet. I mean, I can't even begin to imagine that. I doubt I'd last two weeks. I love explorin' an' all, but I don't think I could actually survive in a culture that different for any length of time." 

"We did what needed to do. To survive."

Trip sits up, interest piqued. He leans forward, gaze piercing. "But it turned into more, didn't it?"

"Trip...I..."

"Well, I'll be damned. You fell in love with him. Didn't you?" He gives Malcolm a playful nudge. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"So, you don't think it's a little..."

"Surprising, yeah. But, Mal, that's wonderful! I'm so happy for you."

"I'm glad someone is."

Trip's smile falls into a frown. "He doesn't return the feelings?"

"I don't know."

"You mean you haven't asked?"

"What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, Matt, thanks for being the last guy on the planet--literally, want to continue it?'"

Trip gives Malcolm a hard slap on the back, nearly causing him to spill his drink. "Still as morbid as ever, I see."

"I am not..."

"Malcolm, you've got a romantic buried deep under all the cynicism somewhere. I know ya do."

"And why should I listen to a man who cries during romantic comedies?"

"Because in matters of the heart, there's no one better." Sure. That's why Trip and Archer worked out so well. They were too in love. And that leads to bitterness, like he just saw. Not that Malcolm isn't bitter about a few things, but his love life has never been one of them. 

Before he was on deep space duty he had a steady diet of about a girl a month. He'd take a week on the prowl, a week of seduction, a week of what they thought was whirlwind romance and a weak of trying to change him, plus a day or so for breaking up, leaving him free to start the process all over again. He wasn't a one-night-stand kind of guy, but he seemed to be utterly lacking in something that made him considered a 'keeper.' And he liked it that way.

"So, Mal, tell me. If you could have it your way and Hayes was here and you knew that he felt the same, would you stay together?"

"If I had it my way, we'd never have been stuck on that godforsaken rock to begin with."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, besides that."

Malcolm takes in a great big breath, Trip studying him skeptically. "Yes. I'd stay with him."

Trip rewards him with a hearty slap to the back. "There, see, that wasn't so hard? Now, if Matt doesn't feel the same way and you tell him, what do you think will happen?"

"I don't know. We'll probably just pretend none of it ever happened."

"So you've got nothin' to lose."

"Trip, it's not that simple."

"Like hell it's not, Malcolm. You're just afraid."

"Am not."

"You're afraid that Hayes might just return your feelings and that you're going to have to change your little James Bond hot piece of womanizing British ass routine--that you're going to have to let someone leave a mark on you." But he's already marked--damaged beyond repair.

"I do not fancy myself James Bond."

Trip looks at him over the top of his bourbon glass, before knocking it back. "Sure you don't." He's forgotten how annoying Trip can be when he settles his mind on something.

"Really, Trip, this is ridiculous. Hayes is straight as an arrow."

"Not if you were fucking him," Trip mumbles into his drink, winking. _Bastard._

"I was straight too!"

"So was I. So was Rock Hudson. Please, Mal. Who do you think you're foolin'?"

"Not you, apparently. Look, regardless of Hayes' feelings, if he has any, we're not on Hil'aka anymore. We're on Earth. Things are different here. He has a son now."

Malcolm just wants to go back to how things used to be--clear, emotionless, black and white.

"She's married to someone else, Mal. Besides, that doesn't change the past twelve years. You can't just forget them. Whether or not you choose to admit it or not, you've changed. You can't go back to how everything was before."

Deep down, he knows that Trip's right, but he can be stubborn when he wants to.

"I can try."

* * *

The children are in bed and they're sitting on one of the swings on Hoshi's backyard playset. The moon is full and bright above them, looking alien and strange after all these years of looking up into a void. Matt almost squints against the moonlight and the humid, breezeless air of the jungle just beyond the reaches of the immaculately landscaped backyard.

"So, tell me about Mr. Sato-Diaz."

"Actually, it's just plain Doctor Diaz. He didn't want to change names and confuse his loyal following."

"He's famous?"

She laughs, a little bitterly. "No. He just thinks he is. He's a professor of exolinguistic literature. He wrote a novel about twentieth century soviet politics in Klingon that's won a lot of awards, but I doubt that anyone without a PhD has ever read the thing. He's in Barcelona right now, giving a talk about his latest work."

"Oh." Matt tries not to sound like he thinks this guy is a total prick, but isn't sure he succeeds.

"I actually do enjoy his writing. It's just that working in the field really does change your point of view about academics."

"So you met at some highbrow university function?"

"Actually I knew him before. He was the TA in one of my practical Vulcan courses. Classic romance: I had a huge crush on him and he wouldn't give me the time of day. We met again at the beginning of the year faculty picnic. He and Sam hit it off almost immediately. Whatever else you can say about him, Koth's a great father."

"Koth?"

"Name given to him by the Klingon ambassador after she read his book."

"I thought he didn't want to change his name."

Hoshi rolls her eyes. "He is a good man. Just overeducated."

"Funny, I usually find myself telling people that about Malcolm."

"Malcolm couldn't even hold a candle to Koth. But he has his moments. Klingon love poetry is actually one of the most romantic things you'll ever hear."

"I'll take your word for it." He feels suddenly isolated. He knows that it's some sort of psychological bullshit that comes from long periods of isolation, or culture shock. But he still feels so far away from this world--so detached from academic squabbles and fiction and children's soccer games. And as open-minded and compassionate as Hoshi is, she'll never be able to understand. No one can. Except maybe...

Hoshi leans her head against Matt's shoulder and he pushes them back and forth, closing his eyes and imagining that it's the rocking of a boat at sea.

"He's cheating on me, you know," she says, like a whisper.

Matt tightens his arms around her. He's always protected her and there's no way he's going to stop now. "I'm sorry, Hosh."

"Actually, I not that mad about it--not the way I should be. There was a time where I used to think I loved him. But it's just not there anymore. But does it need to be? We get along well. We're both neat. He likes the right side of the bed."

"You always preferred the left."

"With a vengeance. We can discuss literature and speak to each other in about twenty different languages. He's great with the kids. He's always tossing a baseball or showing Fooz goalie blocks. And he plays the sax along with Sam. They can talk about Jazz for hours and hours. When Sam was little, Koth used to read to him in all different languages." 

Matt's almost glad that he wasn't here. He would have been a terrible father. He doesn't know the first thing about kids. It sounds as though he might get along with Fooz, but with his own flesh and blood? He certainly couldn't read to him in Klingon and he knows just about as much about music as he does about classical Vulcan literature--which is to say nothing at all.

"Not that I'm saying you wouldn't have made a good father or that you don't have a place in Sam's life...if, of course, you want one. It's just that...Koth and I fulfill each other's needs. There's not a lot more to it. He's sleeping with this Spanish professor of anthropology, and I'm fine with that--as long as he doesn't bring it home, which he doesn't."

She doesn't sound fine. She sounds like she's missing something, like she's lost some of the fight he'd seen in her back on Enterprise, cultivated by the rough life they all led back then.

"It's okay, Hosh. You don't have to be the perfect understanding wife, you know. It's okay to tell him to stop if it upsets you."

"I know," she says softly, looking up at him with the moon full in her eyes, lips tilting up to meet his. The kiss is familiar and comforting and sweet just like he remembers, like he's fantasized about so many times. But it's missing something too. It's missing the fight, the jagged rough desperation. It's missing all that pent up need like explosions and war and bombs going off. Maybe Hil'aka didn't cure his war-lust after all, just transformed it.

He pulls back, not knowing what to say.

"It's not the same is it?" Hoshi asks.

"No, it's not." He places a chaste kiss on her temple and she wraps herself tighter around him, snuggling close until her sensitive ear is atop his heartbeat--as if she can understand even its strange language.

"You really love him, don't you?" she sounds disappointed but not angry. 

He sighs, petting her silky smooth hair. He hasn't really thought about it. With he and Malcolm, it's not like flowers and chocolates and sighing cherubs or anything like that. It's like going into battle, knowing that the guy beside you will die for you and you'll do the same. It's like he feels about defending Earth--all fire and need and passion. It's a fine line between violence and desire and sometimes they cross it. 

But at the same time, Malcolm knows him better than anyone, even Hoshi. He's been with him when he was at his weakest and maybe at his best. He understands about war and duty and the love of all that's dangerous and dark and so natural. He understands what it is to come apart and be made at the same time. He understands the loneliness and the confusion and the frustration â€“the need practically causing him to burst- and not just because he experienced it too.

Maybe it is because extraordinary circumstances forced them to new realms of experience. If they'd never been trapped on Hil'aka, he certainly wouldn't have ever thought about Malcolm like this. But that doesn't mean that on Earth the feelings that they developed there suddenly disappear. It happened and the only place he can go from here is forward.

"You know, I think I do. Thanks Hosh."

They just sit there, enjoying the moon and the shadows it casts on the grass and the trees, making the whole world seem dulled and alien in the pale blue light.

* * *

They hug on Hoshi's doorstop, longer and harder than seems necessary, even though it is. "I'll be back soon." They talked about it, and regardless of what happens with he and Malcolm, he wants to be part of Sam's life and hers. And he wants to start making up for those 12 years he missed of his son's life as soon as possible.

"Take care, Matt. I hope you get your man." She kisses him on the cheek.

"Me too."

"I'll hold down the fort," she smiles, a restraining hand on young Fooz's shoulder.

"You do that." He waves to the kid. "Take care, Sport. Try not to get into too much trouble."

"No, Sir," Fooz says seriously and Matt smiles.

* * *

When finally gets up the nerve to call his sister, she doesn't answer the comm. For a second he thinks it is her, until he realizes that Madeline must be older than this girl of maybe nineteen, looking exactly like Maddie did back then, with the hair pulled back into a ponytail, not a single strand out of place and the eyes wide and staring, as though surprised to actually find someone one the other side of the comm link. 

"Hello?" The girl says, impatiently.

"Hello...erm...Catherine?" His niece, the awkward quiet seven-year-old from so many years ago.

She blinks. "Yes. Do I know you?"

"Yes." He's slightly hurt that she doesn't remember, but then again, why should he expect any differently? Maddie was always the same way. "I'm your uncle, Malcolm."

She frowns. "Uncle Malcolm died," she says, matter-of-factly.

"I was missing in action. I'm back."

She doesn't look shocked or excited, just skeptical. She turns and calls. "Mum! There's a gentleman on the comm for you."

It's not long before the cynical child is replaced by a familiar face. The years haven't been too kind to his sister. Her hair hangs down around her shoulders, whitening. She's developing wrinkle lines at the creases of her eyes and around her lips but she smiles wider than he's seen her do in a long time when she sees him.

"Malcolm?!"

"Maddie."

She's almost shaking. "They told us that you were dead."

"Well, I'm obviously not." He finds that he doesn't say it as exasperatedly as he meant to. He's almost teasing her.

She gapes at him for a second then says. "Well, I'm glad. You must come to visit, Malcolm. I don't know if I can believe....Malcolm, you're really back?"

"I really am," he says, awkwardly. Everything has been so strange recently, disconnected somehow, his conversation with his sister moreso.

She looks at him for a long moment, then stammers. "So...Malcolm, how are you? Where have you been?"

"Stranded on another planet. It's not really important, Maddie. How have you been? Catherine's looking well."

"As well as can be. I don't remember being so difficult as a teenager, Malcolm. Mother just laughs at me though. Of course, David's much more well behaved than you were. He's determined to go into the navy, all spit and polish and everything. I have to force him to go to the movies and read something other than military history."

"I bet Father loves that." Why does it always come back to this? The comparisons. How Madeline, or now her children, are so much better than he is. 

Madeline seems to freeze, looking away from the viewer. She takes a deep breath and he knows what's coming but he doesn't want to hear it. "Malcolm...when you were gone, Father...it was a stroke, Malcolm. He's dead."

Everything she says after that is a blur. He can't believe it. His father always seemed like an unstoppable force, like iron fists that would always be firmly clasped around his neck. He can't just be...gone. They sign off with amicable goodbyes and promises to visit. He gets the name of the cemetery where Father's buried, tapping the PADD he recorded it on absently against the table. He's really dead. His father's dead.

* * *

The weather is perfect for a visit to a cemetery. But, then again, this is England. Matt pulls the collar of his long black raincoat up tighter around his shoulders. He bought it at the transport station--so strange that it has taken so little time for people to go from fearing transporters to using them as a routine part of international travel. 

Matt walks among the tombstones much as he walked among the people downtown. They're all blank staring faces, devoid of color. He couldn't read the people any better than he can the oldest markers, engravings worn away by time and apathy. 

Malcolm is a bright spot on the top of the ridge, sky storming behind him. He's not wearing a rainslicker, but an old navy blue coat. It's too big for him, and Matt smiles at that for a reason he cannot place. 

Malcolm doesn't notice his approach, as concentrated on the glaring black of the tombstone before him as he is.

* * *

"Commander Tucker told me I'd find you here," Hayes says, more formality in his voice that he's used to, startling Malcolm out of his silent contemplation. The rank sounds strange and alien, the formality in Matt's tone wrong somehow. But this is what has to happen. Things are going to go back to how they were before.

But Malcolm can't stand to hear reminders of his former command, structures rigid and useless, formality and propriety keeping people apart. He doesn't look up, even though he knows its Matt. After twelve years, he knows the sound of Matt's voice better than his own. "He's retired. Besides, I thought ranks offended people."

"We're not on Mil'al anymore," Matt points out. 

"No, we're not," Malcom says with a sigh, standing, mind as clouded as the sky. "Why are you here, Matt?"

Matt looks up at the sky, the raindrops falling on his cheeks like tears. "I thought you might want company."

"Well, you thought wrong." He wants to be alone. He can't stand all these people...moving around him like the sea. He just wants to escape, get away so he can feel whatever it is he feels in peace.

* * *

Matt stands there helplessly, as impotent as those first days after Malcolm rescued him. He turns to walk down the hill, letting the rain go pitter-patter on the wide brim of his hat, a language all it's own, and that makes him think of Hoshi, the moonlight in her eyes. He thinks about the life he could have with her, comforting, easy. And he knows that's not what he wants.

He turns, forcing himself to march back up that hill, like it's his last lap around the base, without the drill sergeant screaming in his ear.

Malcolm looks coldly down on him, as unmoving as the stone.

"He would have been proud of you," Matt says. He spits it angrily. "Not only did you grow up to be an amazing sailor and a great man, but you also learned exactly how to cut out the ones that love you."

Malcolm blinks once, twice, the rain forming frost on his eyelashes as cold as his gaze. "You don't love me, Major. You're just afraid to return to this world."

"So what if I am, Malcolm? I'm not a soldier any more. I'm not afraid to fear. Mil'al changed me. I'm not afraid to admit that!"

* * *

Malcolm sighs. "I want to go back to the way it was." He just wants everything to be normal. He wants to understand people again. He wants to stop seeing the ragged hostility, the commerce in every movement, every action. He wants to stop wishing for color in a world that's doomed to be black and white.

"Why? What's so good about how things were before?"

He doesn't know. Before, he lived in his father's shadow. Before, he had friends, but was only just learning how to care for them deeply. Before, he'd had a career, a purpose. Before, the world was still black and white, but only because he painted it that way, because he saw friends and enemies, like a good soldier does. But, Matt's right about one thing--he's not a soldier anymore.

He doesn't say anything, but he can see himself break in Matt's eyes, the rain swirling around them like the dark of the sea.

Matt steps forward, wrapping his arms around Malcolm. Mil'al was never home, and now Earth isn't either, but this...this is right. This is where he wants to be.

"We can do really do this?" Malcolm says, arms coming up around Matt's waist. His voice is like the wind, making great white sails tremble as it pushes ships subtly onward.

"Yes, we can."


End file.
